


Liquid Lunch

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, Dubious Consent, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Smut, Holy Shit What Happened To Tony, Hurt Steve, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Imprinting, M/M, Secret Vampire Cults, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 108,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's turned into a vampire. It's very sad for everyone involved. </p><p>Especially Steve. Not just because Tony keeps trying to eat him alive. There are other reasons too.</p><p>“Just let me try a little bit,” he pleads “I won’t take all of it, oh, just a little taste—” He presses his palms flat against the glass and tries to scrape his teeth down the window “I can, I can control myself, promise.” And then he turns those eyes on Steve, looks him straight on, and they’re pleading, and innocent, and really, it’s selfish of him not to give Tony his blood, why would he not, he can’t see any justifiable reason, so he just starts rolling up his sleeve and nodding as Tony salivates into the glass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I can't believe I wrote this.  
> 2) I can't believe I wrote this.  
> 3) This will be a multi-chaptered story.  
> 4)I can't believe I wrote this.

Tony can’t really remember the night when he gets turned into something a little less than human. Or a little more. It’s actually up for debate.

It was a charity gala, not even one of his, just some celebrities and politicians milling together for some worthwhile cause like ‘save the bees’ or ‘stop the slaughter of the two-bellied otters’ that, look, he didn’t _really_ care about. He hated the hypocrisy of these gatherings as two-timing republican senators with 20-something women on their arms look pious and preach about the sanctity of marriage and drug-addled celebs fresh out of rehab talk about the atrocities in a country they’ve never visited while then doing shots off some minor’s breasts and snorting cocaine through $100 bills. Once upon a time, he was one of them. He likes to think he’s matured, if only slightly.

So when the man approaches him, he offers an interesting distraction. It’s not just the fact he has perfect, thick, black hair and luminous eyes and wears a Versace suit like he was born in one. Or the fact he’s at least ten years younger than Tony, and hey, he’s no sugar daddy but he’s not going to turn down a good offer. It’s the way he smirks and toasts his drink that makes him so unbelievably appealing. It’s a sense of charisma and wit and _intelligence_ that he just doesn’t get from anyone else in this room, that he, let’s be honest, doesn’t get from most people. It takes a lot for Tony Stark to think you’re worth it and in one glance and the tilt of the chin this man has him practically salivating at the mouth 

He’s standing next to Tony with a smirk on his face that Tony can only hope he’s reciprocating in kind because this guy is… he’s never _seen_ anything like this. His only coherent thought is “I need him in my bed _now”_ and that, would you believe, is not a great conversation starter. This man stands holding his champagne and sipping quietly, not breaking eye contact and Tony, for the first time in forever, feels hopelessly out of his depth.

“Is something happening here? I feel like something’s happening.” Tony is inordinately proud that he manages to string the words together.

The man gives another smug smile, holds out his glass “Drink?” He offers, and Tony forgets that he promised Steve, hand on heart, that he wouldn’t drink anything because they have a meeting at the Triskelion (something about updating helicarrier propulsion systems) and because the man is ridiculously pedantic that way, and immediately takes the glass and sips.

It’s sweet, it tastes just like any good champagne would and he hands the drink back to the man so their hands brush.

“I’m going to be honest, Mr Stark, you appear to be dreadfully bored,” He smiles again, those wicked eyes gleaming, such an unusual shade of blue, he can’t stop staring and the man says “I was wondering if I could help?”

Tony blinks. Then he blinks again. And then his minds kicks into gear and he blurts “I don’t know your name.”

The man chuckles, holds out a hand “Gus,” he says, his voice is so smooth, it’s like being wrapped in melted chocolate, Tony thinks he might be holding on too hard but Gus just smiles “And you?” he prompts.

Tony blinks again. “Uh, Tony. Stark. Tony Stark.

“Anthony,” the man corrects “I’ve always loved that name. So regal. It means worthy of praise.”

Tony hates that name. He hates everything that comes with it, the pomposity and standards, the assumptions people make of Anthony Stark compared to those of Tony. He hates that his mother had such a dramatic streak, that she couldn’t have just called him Peter or Steve or John but felt the need to make such a _grand_ statement. Hell, she could have named him Howard Jr, that would have made everyone happy.

But he doesn’t mind that Gus uses it, it rolls off his tongue. Anything could roll off his tongue. And now Tony’s picturing oh wow, he should stop.

“And Stark. Strength. So perfect.”

Tony smiles “You like my name a lot more than I do.”

Gus scoffs “Don’t be ashamed of your name. Never be ashamed of your name. If you don’t like it, change it.”

“It’s not really that simple,” Tony ducks his head.

Gus makes an affirmative noise “But you know what is?” And he raises an eyebrow, smirks.

And then they’re in the elevator and Tony can’t keep his hands off of him, he’s ripping his shirt and their mouths clash and it’s all teeth and tongue. And Tony can’t recall getting to Gus’s room but he remembers shucking clothes like his life depended on it, lying on the bed as Gus marked him, licked every part of him till he was delirious with it. How he held his hands above his head and made him take all of it and Tony squirmed with unbelievable pleasure beneath him, this unbelievable, beautiful man who can bend the great Tony Stark to his will.

And then. Then it gets blurry. Because he’s lying on the bed, lax and sated and another man’s come dripping down his thighs and when Gus swoops in for another kiss he giggles, actually giggles. And he mouths at his neck, samples the sweat there and Tony remembers fisting his hands in his hair and pressing him closer, the amazing feeling of his tongue almost getting him hard again. 

Gus bites and Tony screams with it because _god that’s so good_ and slowly it fades to a long drawn out moan because Gus teases the spot with his teeth, licks and sucks as Tony shivers. It’s intense, it’s like a long, drawn out orgasm, but that can’t be possible because he already came. There’s a deep tingling throughout his body, from the tips of his fingers, to his head, all the way down his spine and his toes curl on the bed. He drags his legs around Gus’s back, tries to pull him closer, tilts his head back and pulls on his hair till he’s not even moaning or writhing, he’s reached some timeless place where everything pares down to the pressure on his neck.

He sighs when it pulls away, when time starts to come back to him. He feels the scape of something sharp along the centre of his neck, dragging down and he shivers. Then something’s being pressed to his mouth, something warm and dripping and he opens his lips on instinct and when it touches his tongue he laps it up. It tastes strange, not nice, but he can’t seem to get enough of it.

“You’re a hungry boy, aren’t you?” And he feels himself being tugged up till he’s seated in Gus’s lap, straddling, and his legs hook around the small of the other man’s back and his head is guided to his neck “Drink, go on.”

The liquid is flowing in his mouth, and _then_ he moans and pulls Gus’s head to the side, braces one hand on his shoulder to support himself more and laps it all up because it’s addictive, he can’t stop, the tingling in his body intensifies like a sweet fire throughout and he has to gasp with it.

“You’re going to be beautiful, look at those eyes, already you’re changing.” Tony nods, sated, and lets himself be laid back on the bed, blanket drawn up around him.

“You’ll come and find me, won’t you? After this, you must come and find me.”

Tony just nods, dazed and lax, eyes slipping. There’s a comfortable numbness settling all over his body. He’s full, he feels complacent and exhausted, he has no trouble sleeping.

It’s the last sleep he’ll ever have.

 

***

 

When Tony awakes the light blinds him. As in, it literally causes his eyes to see white and for a good ten minutes he lies with his face pressed into the covers until his vision clears. He crawls and stumbles his way to the curtains until he can block most of the light that’s destroying his eyes and _making him burn._

Hallucinations. Jesus, how much did he drink last night? He feels sticky in all the wrong places and he can take a good guess at what went down. He remembers Gus but everything is. Very. Slow. And he can’t quite piece together what goes where.

He lies, slumped, under the curtains until he manages to literally _roll_ his way to the ensuite bathroom, hits the door with a ‘thump’ and then uses his actual limbs to stand. He’s groggy, he feels like he spent a night… well, a night playing bottom to an over-enthusiastic top.

But oh, what a good night it was. Tony remembers that, at least. The intense pleasure that made him shiver and, god, he actually _pleaded,_ he hasn’t done that since he was twenty. There’s nothing quite like a good, no-strings attached fuck to get the mind into a better place.

He stumbles his way to the shower, turns the water on nice and hot, lets the steam envelop him. He wonders what time it is. Shit, he’s probably missed the helicarrier meeting and Steve’s gonna kill him.

Oh well. No point rushing now. He looses himself to the water, washes his hair and stands under the spray for a long time, just luxuriating. It un-tenses all those muscles that are evidence of a long night fucking and Tony’s almost sad to feel the last evidence being washed away.

Not the last, actually, if he remembers correctly. He should have a _very_ impressive hickey on his neck to remember this night by for a _very long time._

He slides out the shower refreshed, he feels good, too good, really, he hasn’t felt this relaxed in a while. The usual effects of a hangover haven’t quite hit him yet and he’s not going to dwell on it. He pieces together his suit that’s been left, dry-cleaned, over a chair. No note, but still, it’s thoughtful ofGus to do so. In the old days, Tony had left that to Pepper.

He adjusts his collar until he’s sure it covers the bruise that’s sure to sit on his neck and takes the sunglasses that Gus left on the table. They go some way to muting the fiery headache he’s been nursing and he’s brave enough to tentatively open a window. Not great, but still, it’ll pass.

He checks himself in the mirror, makes sure his collar is tight and his suit is straight. His hair is thick, smoothed back and he doesn’t look as bad as he honestly could. So he makes his way to the lobby, checks the time, 13:42, yeah, he definitely missed that helicarrier meeting.

He briefly weighs the pros and cons of getting a cab or calling Happy and decides that the cab is probably the safer bet. He doesn’t want to drag him away from whatever he might be doing now so he steps out into the sun and wow, it’s warm today. Wait, no, not warm, boiling, excruciatingly so. In fact, would you look at that, Tony’s pretty sure that he can feel blisters breaking out on his skin and he blinks once, twice, can’t comprehend it but then the pain really sets in and he knows then that something’s wrong. He pushes into a cab and the driver looks at him, concerned “You alright, sir?”

And he almost says ‘no, hospital, now,’ but something stops him and instead he grits out “Stark tower, please.”

He spends the journey trying to stay in the shade of the vehicle, and thanks God for NYC’s tall buildings that block most of the sunlight anyway. But by the time he gets to Stark tower he’s sweating and he throws his wallet at the man and runs into the shade of his home.

He’s sick. He must be sick, he’s got some kind of fever or something and it’s making him run hot and a little delirious, it’s fine, he can deal.

He takes the elevator to his level and Jarvis warns him no one’s home. That’s fine, that’s good, he can deal with that he just needs, God, he needs bed and sleep and air conditioning. Maybe an ice cold bath. Oh yes, that would be _good._ But first he’s ripping the front of his shirt, the buttons popping and he stands in front of the mirror, to scared to take off the glasses and face even a bit of natural light, and staring at where his flesh has reddened, like sun burn. He shudders, tells Jarvis to fill the bath with cold water. The AI advises against it but he mutes him, he can handle this, he doesn’t need him.

The icy water feel _so good_ against his skin and he lets it cool every bit of him. It takes every bit of sting out of his flesh and when he crawls out he feel like he’s almost back to normal.

Until the shakes begin. Then he’s swallowing an advil, trying to down it with water but he can’t force it down his throat, it dribbles down his chin and won’t stay in his mouth so he gives up and crawls onto the sheets, still naked, and shivering, and sweating and he doesn’t know what’s happening, this is unlike any fever he’s ever had, maybe it’s some kind of rare, tropical thing, maybe he picked it up from Gus, like some crazy, mutated STD and he’s going to die like this because no one will be able to find a cure.

He hugs a pillow close to his chest and his head is going to split, he feels it, he knows it, that’s the only _logical_ explanation for the pain, his head is going to fall in two. He imagines his brain open and swelling with the heat and he feels the room spin and okay, now he’s definitely hallucinating. There’s a burn in the back of his throat and it won’t go away, every scrape of the air feels like a struggle and his jaw aches so bad, it aches like all the worst tooth-aches in the world times all the sugar you can eat. He bites the pillow, tries to relieve the strain but it’s not hard enough, he needs something _stronger,_ yes, something he can sink his teeth into. The headboard does a reasonable job and he kneels up, gnaws at it until he feels it splinter beneath him. He lies back down, ache abated some and spreads his simultaneously sweating and shivering limbs onto the bed, hoping for sleep to catch him.

It doesn’t, and then the pain starts.

 

***

 

Steve isn’t _angry_ with Tony Stark. He’s just _disappointed._ And also ready to tear him limb from limb. Because it’s not just that he _left him_ even though he had _told him explicitly_ that under _no circumstances_ was he going to leave him alone with the technicians at the Triskelion who Tony _knew_ were only there for him, he also made him sit through a gruelling three hour struggle, off the books, argument with General Ross, who accosted him in the halls and didn’t let him leave until Steve finally threatened to put the shield in his head.

It’s not that Steve can’t handle it, it’s that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to have to handle homicidal, republican generals because, as a rule, that is Tony’s job. It’s not official, but it’s a thing, it’s an unwritten agreement that Steve will handle the public PR and Tony does the behind the scenes work because Tony, as Steve has learned, actually has the lying ability of a skilled politician and Steve has never had the stomach for that work.

Ross is demanding a re-trial on the hulk’s suitability for the initiative, not _Banner’s,_ he insists, the _Hulk,_ as if there’s actually any difference.

So by the time Steve get’s a quinjet home he’s ready to spend the next week ignoring Tony until his annoyance abates some and he can stand to be in the same room as him without picturing throwing him out of a window. It’s the standard procedure for both of them when they feel that the other has fucked up except Tony sulks a lot more. It’s not that he doesn’t like Tony — on the battle field they’re an unbeatable combo — it’s just the man grates on his nerves. He’s allowed to love everyone and Tony has a manner about him he’s never been able to crack, never really wants to. 

The open floor’s kitchen is dark when he enters, which is strange enough. Usually the lights stay on in this room 24/7, there’s always someone _in here,_ so why would they be off now? 

It’s the first sign that’s something is wrong.

Steve hoists the shield in front of his torso — it’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to be safe. He takes small, quiet steps because if there is someone there he wants to have the advantage.

Something brushes by his ear and he turns into more blackness.

“Jarvis,” he whispers “where is everyone?”

“The tower is empty, Captain, with the exception of Mr Stark who is currently standing behind you.”

Steve spins “ _Jesus Tony,_ what is _wrong with you._ Jarvis, lights, please.”

The room brightens and Steve can see where Tony is now crouching on the floor a small distance away. He’s surrounded by — Christ — there’s food _everywhere,_ cereal and leftover chicken and vegetables, bread and chocolate and sausage and it’s all spread haphazardly around him, spilling out of the fridge and rolling on the floor around him. But now, most disturbing of all there’s _raw meat_ in his hands and he’s _so close_ to just taking a bite—

“Tony, put that down, _Tony!”_ He steps forward and Stark jumps, flinches back and blinks.

“I’m so hungry,” he rasps “but I can’t eat.”

Steve approaches cautiously “Have you…” he peers closer “have you had plastic surgery?” Jesus, Tony looks like he’s lost ten years. His face is smooth and his neck is corded with strong muscle, has he always been that lean? Has he always been this attractive? Not that Steve finds him attractive. I mean, objectively, from his viewpoint _right now,_ Tony looks very good. Incredibly so. In fact, Steve just wants to take him to bed, bend him over and—

There’s something strange in the air tonight. There’s something not quite right.

“I’m so hungry,” Tony repeats “but I can’t eat.”

Steve leans down, crouches in front of him and takes his head in his hands. He tilts from side to side, peers at each of his eye, the pupils blown so his eyes are black, his iris completely swallowed with it. His eyes are bloodshot, too, and he doesn’t blink as Steve turns his head.

“Are you… are you _stoned?”_

“ _I’m hungry,”_ Tony repeats with a voice bordering on irritation “I think I’m sick.”

Steve nods, frowns “You’re hot. Is that why you missed the meeting? You were sick?”

Tony cocks his head. His eyes are wide, it’s like the lights are on but no ones home. Steve taps his cheek “Tony?” he says “You with me?”

“You smell good,” he blurts.

Steve recoils “I, what?”

Tony makes to stand and repeats “You smell _really_ good, like,” he inhales and shudders “just, just let me,” Tony’s breath is hot on his face and he leans closer, closer, Steve should pull away, he should, but he can’t, he’s transfixed by this man although his doesn’t know why. And for a moment he thinks he’s leaning in for a kiss but then his mouth goes to his neck and he gasps, hot against Steve’s skin, and licks the pulse there.

“Oh,” he says “oh, I need that.” And then he’s standing so fast Steve can’t comprehend it, he’s been pushed against the kitchen island, he can feel it against his back, and Tony nips the skin of his neck and then he’s _biting,_ actually biting, and Steve, well, it should hurt, or he should push away, he can’t let Tony have this no matter how much he wants it but then, oh my God, then he sucks at the skin there and Steve feels his legs give out beneath him, he’s kept up only by Tony’s hands on his chest, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that’s not right, Tony shouldn’t be able to hold him up like that but he’s not really in any space to complain.

Tony unlatches for a moment “So good, so hot, and, and sweet,” and then he starts to suckle again, his tongue lapping at the blood.

At the blood.

Tony is drinking his blood.

With supreme effort Steve pushes Tony’s body from his. He sees now what he missed before, how Tony has _grown,_ how he now stands of equal height to Steve and his stomach is a hard, tense rock beneath his fingers. How he hisses when he stumbles back and looks outraged and most of all how his eyes have all but disappeared, a complete inky black. Cherry red blood stains his mouth. He looks like a monster.

Steve dazedly slaps a hand to his neck, swipes and feels the blood that comes off on his wet palm. He blinks, can’t quite comprehend what’s happening but then Tony snarls, braces himself and Steve ducks as he lunges and hits the granite table top. He hears a crack and he realises that Tony’s snapped it, the force of him running into the table has caused the top to break and crumble and this isn’t Tony, this can’t be him, something changed him because his head twists unnaturally before the rest of his body catches up and then Steve is running, what else can he do, he doesn’t want to kill him, doesn’t want to hurt him, he’s still Tony in there somewhere.

Hopefully. 

“Tony,” he tries to reason “Tony just, please, _think,_ this isn’t you,” he shouts as he runs and all he gets is a snarled “ _mine,”_ in return.

Steve makes a snap judgement. He jumps into the elevator and as the doors close Tony wedges half his body inside, one arm scrabbling to get him, his mouth stained red and frothing, his eyes inky and surreal. There’s no way the elevator doors can withstand that pressure and Tony manages to wrench them open, grinning and snarling madly as they close behind him.

“Down, Jarvis, take us to the containment level.”

Steve brings the shield up to cover himself just as Tony takes a another swipe. Tony grabs at it, his usual intellect lost to the mad desire for Steve’s blood, and tugs it clean from Steve’s hands. And then he’s on him all over again, pressing his arms against the wall, trying to pin him down and Steve twists so he is placed against the elevator doors. Tony licks his lips, rabid and feral and this close Steve can see his teeth, two sharp canines that glint as he grins and rips Steve’s shirt down the middle, latches onto his collarbone and moans at the taste of the blood there.

Until the doors open and they both lose their balance, Steve scrambling back, shield in hand and Tony briefly crawling after him until Steve starts to run down the dark corridors. This is containment, it’s been home to many indestructible monsters in it’s day and usually this is where Bruce will go after a particularly bad mission, if he can’t calm down. Down here, it’s lit only by the safety lights in the floor and when he comes into the corridor containing the cells he bangs into the wall.

He needs to get Tony into one, otherwise there’s a very real chance he will die.

But Tony is faster than him. Tony is stronger than him. And Tony is rabid. His only advantage is his mind, which for the first time can be considered superior to that of the genius. 

His palm presses against the scanner for entrance to the cell at the end of the row when Tony barrels into him, teeth finding his neck automatically and biting down so they lie on the ground, Tony on top of Steve’s back, trying desperately to suck.

“Just, just stay down, down,” he rasps “need, need,” he doesn’t finish because then Steve rolls and he’s up in a split second but not before Tony pushes him _hard_ against the wall and he stands there, about four feet away.

“Tony,” Steve starts “Tony _it’s me,_ what are you,” Tony edges closer “please, just stop and think.”

Tony blinks, licks his lips, then he sags “I’m so hungry,” he whispers.

“I know,” Steve says quietly “I know, but we can fix this.” 

Tony tilts his head to the side, blinks, and the black starts to recede.

“That’s it, Tony. Just, just _calm down._ No need to lose yourself, right?”

“But,” Tony groans, he doubles over, clutching his stomach “but you smell so _good.”_ He whines. His head swipes up, fast, impossibly so, and his eyes are black again. He takes a step closer and Steve holds out his hands.

“No, Tony, just— fight this.” 

And it looks like he’s trying. He bites his lip as it hangs so close to Steve’s pulse, he whimpers and groans. And Steve has to go off fairytales, then, because he doesn’t know what this is but he knows what his mother told him when he was a kid and that was vampires never, ever go out in the sun. So he says “Jarvis, UV rays,” and the cell lights up and it’s so bright he can’t see where Tony is or what he’s doing but he knows that he’s still there because he can hear the screaming.

Steve edges his way out, swiping the shield in case Tony gets to close. He’s vaguely aware that the door closes shut behind him and traps Tony inside the container but it’s so bright he just crumples as white spots cloud his vision.

“Off, Jarvis, _off.”_ Immediately, the hall is plunged back into relative darkness and Steve just huffs on the floor, sweating and bleeding sluggishly. He can hear Tony’s moans in the cage behind him but he tunes it out until he can force himself to his feet.

“Tony,” he tries, but the other man has pushed himself into the corner of the cell and he’s pulling at his hair, shaking and looking at Steve like he’s some sort of overwhelming figure, his mouth gapes as he stares and Steve can’t decide if it’s some kind of hunger or desire or lust.

So this might be a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit what happened to Tony?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have most of this planned out and I'm just kinda writing when I get the time.
> 
> Your comments are all greatly appreciated!

“This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” Bruce’s eyes are narrow “this is… fascinating. Look at this, his blood is, well, I’m not sure you can call it that, but look, his red blood cell count out of control. He should be dead, he should have had a heart attack, or, or a _stroke_ but he’s still here.”

Bruce swings round to the monitor they’ve installed in front of Tony’s cell “I want a saliva sample. You said that you didn’t feel pain when he bit, well there must be something in that as well." 

“Could you not have told me that before I went in to get your blood sample,” Steve says irritably. Tony is weak, now. Any strength him seemed to have had has faded and it looks like he’s struggling to stay upright. He’s starving, anyone can tell that but it’s been two days and getting hold of blood is actually harder than it sounds, especially if you don’t have a reason.

“It could be numbing agent, that’s remarkable. You said it was pleasurable, it’s unbelievable, it’s like he’s been moulded to be the perfect hunter. He’s fast, strong, but persuasive. I mean, looking at him right now—” Bruce swallows “I see what you mean, about the uh, well, the _charisma.”_

“If we could keep our excitement to a minimum, that would be nice,” Natasha chimes from Steve’s left. 

“Right,” Bruce says slowly, and then turns back to his screen “there’s a heartbeat but what it’s pumping around his body isn’t blood, it’s… there’s something else, here.”

Inside the cell, Tony whines and presses his face against the glass. He does that a lot when Steve’s around, paws and scrapes in the hope of maybe enticing him to enter.

“He needs to eat,” Steve says absently to no one.

“Does anyone know how this actually happened?” Natasha says “did he just wake up like this? Someone must have infected him.”

“Infected him?” Steve says sharply.

Natasha shrugs “I would assume so. That’s what’s supposed to happen, right? You get bit and then—” She draws a finger over her throat and makes a face.

Steve looks at Bruce “Am I going to… change?”

Bruce shakes his head “I think it’s his blood that changes you, actually. I mean,” he takes off his glasses, wipes them on his shirt “you would need to bite _him.”_

“Must’ve been a fun night,” Natasha murmurs.

They stare at her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“In fairness, someone could have spiked his drink,” he pauses, raises and eyebrow “with their blood.”

“As you do.” Natasha quips.

“That’s disgusting.” Steve spits.

Natasha looks at him incredulously “He took a chunk out of you and your biggest concern is that someone could drip drop some blood into your drink?”

“Vampire blood? Yes actually, it concerns me.” Steve rebuffs, crossing his arms.

And then Clint is rolling in holding a big brown carrier bag carrying packs of plastic, fresh blood.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces and Natasha shakes her head.

“This is fucked up.”

“Excellent,” Bruce says and takes one, opening a hatch in the reinforced glass wall of the cell to throw it in with little fuss. 

Tony pounces. He rips the plastic skin with his teeth and it’s spilling on the floor but that doesn’t stop him from lapping it up anyway, gathering it on his fingers and sucking them clean, licking the floor to get every last drop.

It’s probably one the most disturbing things Steve has ever seen.

“Uh,” says Bruce “maybe another, then?”

He feeds him three more and Tony repeats the process again and again and again until he’s rolling in it and it stains his clothes, his skin, it’s caught drying in his hair and he’s nibbling at his fingers to get all the excess. 

“How many more do you have?” Bruce says, not taking his eyes off of Tony.

“Three,” Clint says and his voice is shaking, he’s just as disturbed by this as the rest of them.

“Give them here,” Bruce takes the blood and feeds it into the cell where Tony chuffs it happily.

“Poor bastard,” Clint says quietly and Steve nods gently.

But when Tony looks up, the monstrous, inky black of his eyes has receded. Instead, they’re not quite their usual shade of brown, they’ve definitely lightened, an almost ochre colour. And he’s beautiful. There’s blood staining his body and he’s only half-way human but his skin is flawless olive, his limbs stretch languorously, smooth flesh over lean, lithe corded muscles. Steve’s finger’s itch despite themselves to to pick up some paper, to paint him as he is now, so open and hiding nothing.

Tony stares at them dazedly. Clint picks up a hand and waves.

Tony looks confused. He waves back, as if not really sure what his hand is doing.

“Do you think his mind’s fucked as well?” Clint murmurs conspicuously from the side of his mouth, still waving.

“I can hear you,” Tony says, looking into the middle distance. He frowns “I can hear _everything.”_ He shakes his head “Is that— there’s police sirens, and people talking and, and I think that’s the sewage system.” He gasps “God, it’s, it’s, I can hear your _pulses.”_ He stands, slowly, gracefully, each leg slides out from underneath him and he walks steady, strong to the glass, places a palm on the cool window.

He shakes his head and suddenly he’s vulnerable all over again “What happened?” He asks, but he’s looking at Steve, as if he’s supposed to know “I can’t remember,” he looks at each of their faces “I was sick, I think. Is this, am I in quarantine?”

Silence.

“Am I ill?” Tony asks again.

“Something like that,” Bruce says sympathetically. 

“When… when can I come out?” There’s still a helpless naivety about him, the way his head falls to the side and his brow furrows.

“Now,” Steve says, and he’s moving of something he can’t explain, some base instinct, but he’s stopped, Natasha’s hand firm on his wrist.

“Don’t.” She says “Steve, not yet.”

Tony takes a step back, surveys the scene warily “What aren’t you telling me?”

They share looks.

Tony’s palm slaps the glass, not hard, just enough to get their attention “What’s happened to me?”

Steve moves forward. “You were attacked, uh, we think.” He makes a face “We’re not, well, we’re not entirely sure, but we can figure it out, you’ll remember eventually, right? I mean—”

“Steve _please.”_ Tony looks at him with those big ochre eyes and Steve blinks, swallows.

“So you’re a vampire.” He blurts out and he curses himself mentally, kicks himself off a cliff and Tony physically recoils.

“I bit you.”

Steve looks to the side “Uh, well, yeah,” he scratches the back of his head “but I wouldn’t worry about it. No harm done, right?” He forces a grin.

“I was going to eat you.”

“Noo, no, it, it wasn’t _that_ bad, I mean,” he waves a hand, he swallows hard “you were, you weren’t yourself,” he says, pleased with his wording “yeah, you were… hungry. But all good now. All good.” He draws the sentence out, rolls the ‘all’ over his tongue and nods, smiling.

“Right. I’m not hungry because I just… that was blood.” Tony says, his voice empty.

Steve starts to speak but Natasha places an arm in front of him, cuts him off and give him a _look._ “I think what Steve’s _trying_ to say,” the look intensifies “is that you, well, for all intents and purposes you’re a vampire, okay? But Steve is alive, you got yourself together enough to let him escape. And we got you some… baggies,” she winces the word “so you shouldn’t be hungry for a while,” she shrugs “honestly, we’re not _sure_ how long, but… we can fix this. We’ll keep you here till you’re stable, run some tests. There must be a way of finding a cure, it _will_ be fixable.”

The men around her nod encouragingly, murmur in agreement.

Tony blinks. It’s the first time Steve’s seen him do that since he attacked him.

“I was…” Tony starts “I was at the gala,” he says, slowly “I was at the gala and there was a man, uh, Gus—”

They groan unanimously “Oh Jesus, really, Tony?”

He shrugs, smiles sheepishly and it’s nice to see his lips move like that “He was, God, he was _something_ I mean maybe it’s a vampire thing. You noticed him from across the room, he was like some kind of Adonis and…” he trails off and one Bruce coughs uncomfortably.

“Tony… have you looked in a mirror?”

He turns, confused “I, what? No, why, should I?”

Natasha takes out her phone, snaps and flips it to show him.

“Oh.” He says “I see.” He looks down, hangs his head, and he suddenly looks so _low,_ Steve just wants to make him feel better, would he like to try some of his blood? That would cheer him up, definitely, and he’s halfway to offering when Tony says “He bit me.” Very quietly and then continues, sighs: “I bit him back.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Natasha says and Bruce nods.

Tony sits in front of the glass, rubs his nose and says “You smell really bad.”

They share looks “Uh, what?” Clint says and Tony rolls his eyes “Sorry, no, Bruce, your blood smells _wrong,”_ he sniffs tentatively and says “you two are okay,” with a shrug at Natasha and Clint and then a look at Steve. He sniffs again, delicately, and Steve see’s his pupils blow wide “oh, you smell so good,” and then he’s standing, so fast they can’t process it and he’s pressed against the glass, pupils growing, and growing until they begin to swallow his eyes and Steve knows that the next stop are those inky black holes.

“Just let me try a little bit,” he pleads “I won’t take _all_ of it, oh, just a little taste—” He presses his palms flat against the glass and tries to scrape his teeth down the window “I can, I can control myself, promise.” And then he turns those eyes on Steve, looks him straight on, and they’re pleading, and innocent, and really, it’s _selfish_ of him _not_ to give Tony his blood, why would he not, he can’t see any justifiable reason, so he just starts rolling up his sleeve and nodding as Tony salivates into the glass.

“No, Jesus, Cap, what,” Clint starts.

“Steve, no. You’re being ridiculous—”

“It’s just a little bit,” Tony says earnestly and Steve nods, turns to Natasha.

“It’s just a little bit,” he repeats “he won’t do me any harm—”

“He’ll suck you dry you fuckwit.” Natasha slaps him round the face, _hard,_ and he stumbles back, shakes his head.

Tony looks at him hopefully, smiles and cocks his head. He pokes his tongue out from between his sharp incisors and for a moment he’s caught between manipulative blood-sucker with empty black eyes and puppy.

“Uh, sorry Tony,” Steve shoots Natasha a look, rubs his cheek “I can’t do that.”

Tony pouts and his eyes begin to fade back to bronze.

Someone coughs.

“Right,” Bruce breaks the silence “so we know that his eyes turn black when he’s hungry.”

“And that he wants to lick every inch of Steve,” Clint adds, helpfully.

“Uh, yes, that too,” and Bruce suddenly become very interested in his monitor and Natasha finds something incredibly engrossing under her nails and Clint decides that he’s going to look absolutely everywhere except Steve and Tony just continues to stare at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Which for Tony he probably is.

“I think, I think now would be a _good_ time for that saliva sample,” Bruce says and Steve nods ‘oh yeah, yeah, definitely’.

Bruce unpacks some cotton swabs and opens a small window in the glass “Tony, put your mouth here.”

Tony blinks, smiles and looks at Steve.

Again, somebody coughs and Bruce sighs.

He hands Steve the swab “Maybe you should do it.”

Steve clears his throat, steps forward and says “Open wide Tony,” and he does, he opens his mouth as wide as it can go and lets Steve carefully swab around his fleshy gums and teeth.

And then the moment breaks and Bruce is putting things under a microscope.

Tony sits back down and eyes all of them warily, licks his lips and hums.

“Is he always going to be this hungry?” Steve asks.

Bruce sighs and takes off his glasses “Well, it’s hard to say. We have, technically,” he winces “ _starved_ him for the past two days so he’s probably hungry. But I think it might be an age thing. He’s a newborn and kids need more food to grow,” he thinks “like a kitten.”

“A kitten.” Clint repeat slowly “He tried to _eat Steve alive_ and you think, yes, what a kitten.”

“In fairness, compared to the hulk—” Natasha starts.

“He can’t be this hungry all the time. If, how many baggies did we give him, six? If six baggies isn’t enough to make him lucid for more than five minutes we’re gonna need to think of something else.”

Bruce sighs “I’ll run tests. About two of those bags equals a litre.”

Clint pauses “There are five litres of blood in the human body. He takes that from a person then,” he swallows “they’re gonna die.”

“We starved him.” Steve insists “He wouldn’t of had to have taken so much if we hadn’t.”

But they still look uneasy.

“I’ll run tests,” is all Bruce says.

 

***

 

Oh _God_ Tony’s so hungry. He’s so, so, so, hungry and he just can’t understand why they won’t give him _food._  

He knows, in a still rational part of his brain, that food now consists of blood and that taking blood from them is _bad_ but that doesn’t stop the hunger pangs and he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

“Talk, Bruce. Talk to me.” He says desperately.

“These tests, Tony… you’re producing some kind of, I don’t want to say pheromone, because it’s not, but…” he exhales “you’re very distracting, right now.”

“I need to _eat.”_

“Well, that’s it I think, the hungrier you get, the more, uh, _persuasive_ you become.”

Tony moans and shuffles closer to the glass “Please, Bruce,” he breathes “I’ll do anything for a little bite.”

“Stop that, Tony,” Bruce frowns “it won’t work on me.”

Tony scratches a hand down the glass, squeezes his eyes shut “Sorry,” he says honestly “I don’t realise I’m doing it.”

Bruce softens, sighs “I know. I know that, it’s not like you asked for this.” He turns and reads some things of a monitor and Tony lets out a groan, gasps.

“You must have more of those bags, I know you do,” his tone turns angry “you’re _hiding_ them from me, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” and then his fist _slams_ into the glass “ _Answer me!_ You’re _starving me_ on purpose, aren’t you, you don’t want me to eat.” He wails, his palms slap against the window.

“Tony, _please,”_ Bruce squeezes his eyes shut “you don’t realise the effect you’re having on me, _please_ just calm down.”

“I’m sorry,” he says “I’m sorry, I’m just so hungry,” he draws his knees up to his chest and buries his head there. He rocks, as if that will lessen the pain.

“Tony…” Bruce sounds unsure, uneasy “Tony, we’re not sure what this is. But… it’s important you realise this. You are strong, now. You’re stronger than Steve, you’re faster than him. Your senses are… off the charts. And you have some kind of biological drawing effect, people can’t help doing what you want.” He pauses, steps close to the glass and says quietly “There will be people out there who want to exploit this, Tony. Your blood can turn anyone into a vampire. From you there could be a legion of, well, of _super-soldiers.”_

“All out of control,” he murmurs into his knees “all out of control, all desperate for blood.” He gasps, moans “ _Blood,_ oh,” and the next thing Bruce sees it that he’s sunk his teeth into his own arm.

“Tony _stop that!”_ He says, fast, and Tony breaks away, breathes heavily.

“I _can’t,”_ he grits “just,” he lies on his belly, writhes, “I _need_ it, please, I’m so _hungry,”_ and this time it’s almost screamed and he grabs at his own hair, tugs.

Bruce can see his pupils turn black 

“You can control it, Tony,” he says, softly “I know you can.”

Tony growls. His fists curl, they beat hard against the floor of the cell again and again and again as he snarls.

And then he twists, it’s so fast Bruce doesn’t see it coming, and he’s pressed flat against the glass, eyes deep, dark, pits and his teeth sharp, feral and deadly. He’s salivating, it smears on the window as he scrapes his mouth against it, as if trying to gain relief.

“Someone must have turned you,” Bruce says to himself “there must be others. You can’t be the only one.”

A snarl rips from Tony’s throat and he smashes his fists against the glass repeatedly. He’s trying to break it. He’s trying to smash the glass. He won’t be able too, but still, it doesn’t do much for Bruce’s nerves. The hulk can’t escape these cells, neither will Tony.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting you some food,” Bruce says, although Tony isn’t listening, he’s chewing on his forearm and banging the other against the glass “I’ll send someone else down to keep you company, if you like?”

Tony snarls.

 

***

 

Tony wants. He wants so bad.

He remembers the thick give of Steve under his teeth, the way the skin opened for him and the hot, sweet liquid that slid down his throat, warmed him, filled a deep hole in him. Oh he needs it so much, he’s so hungry, he’ll do anything for some _blood_ anything.

It scares him. It scares him that he’s a monster. That he wants to kill people so he can find relief. He’s scared that the feeling of hunger will never go away. That he doesn’t know what this entails. He wants it all to stop, and he wants _Steve._

He moans at the thought of sinking his teeth into soft, willing flesh, at sucking and feeling it slide down his throat.

He shudders at the idea of enjoying it.

He hears Natasha coming long before she arrives, the elevator moving and her soft footsteps betraying her. She’s stupid if she thinks she can sneak up on him.

(she would taste so sweet)

He’s up in a flash, his fists smashing against the glass in a futile attempt to break loose, to get to the meat in front of him, passive, waiting, he so close but so far, it’s insanity inducing and he gnaws at the pane with his teeth and scrapes and whines.

Natasha stands with her arms crossed, watching.

She sighs “I got you breakfast,” and she draws out six neat bags of blood.

Tony salivates at the sight.

“Just, uh, don’t eat it all at once.” As if that’ll stop him and when she throws them in he screeches and licks and laps and drinks every little bit right down because it’s just the best, it’s better than alcohol and burgers and _sex_ nothing beats this and he thinks he might be laughing as he chuffs it down but it’s all gone too quickly, he would love more, but the overpowering urge has faded and he can think nice and _clear._

As his eyes come back down to some semblance of human he sits in blood and licks it off his fingers.

Natasha clears her throat.

“Answer my questions and there’s more where that came from.”

Tony snorts “You don’t need to bribe me, Romanoff.”

She waits for him to clean the last of the blood from his face, stand, and then she starts.

“So obviously the man you slept with turned you.”

“Obviously.”

“I need to know his name.”

Tony frowns “Gus.”

“Gus? That’s it?” She crosses her arms, leans closer “No second name? No company? All I have to go on it _Gus?_ ”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Tony says defensively “I was a little pre-occupied, don’t you think?”

“What did he look like?” She continues.

“Tall, blue eyes, black hair, sucks blood, old-timey accent now that give me that blood.”

She chucks in a new pack and Tony rips the plastic and shudders, downing it fast.

“So I’m going to find him,” Natasha says casually and then Tony is slamming against the glass, furious, and he snarls “ _No you’re not.”_

“Can I ask why?”

“He’s, he’s _mine._ You don’t go near him,” and Natasha is watching him warily so he tries a new tactic. He ducks his head, looks up with bright eyes and says softly “Natasha, he’s mine. You can’t hurt him, okay?”

Natasha nods, blindly and then stumbles back “You’re manipulating me,” she accuses.

“I— yes.” He says with a shrug. He sits down and crosses his legs “Yes, yes, I was trying to manipulate you.” He admits.

Natasha stares at him, and is that praise in her eyes? “You nearly did.”

“I’m not very good.”

“Good enough. You throw that shit at anyone else and you’re gonna have them crawling.”

He looks down “I don’t want that,” he says quietly.

“You nearly got Steve to slice himself open for you yesterday.”

He looks up sharply “That’s different.”

“Because?”

“Because… _I’m_ different when I’m hungry.”

She looks at him curiously “Are you hungry now?”

He frowns “I’m— no. I could stand next to you without going crazy. But I could easily eat more.”

“What about Steve? Could you stand easily next to Steve?” She raises her eyebrows.

“Would you let him drop?” Tony snaps.

“I don’t know, would you?”

“No,” Tony concedes “his blood tastes really good.”

Natasha puts her head in her hands “Jesus, Tony, what the fuck.”

“I can’t help it! I don’t, look, I don’t want to kill him, I just want a little nibble.”

“Okay, I’m going, Tony.”

“Can you send Steve?”

“No.”

“Can you get me a magazine?”

“Maybe. Which one?”

“Playboy.”

“Go suck a dick.”

“I did, and look where that got me.”

“Jesus, okay, goodbye Tony.”

“I’ll being seeing you, then.”

“Probably not.”

Natasha leaves and Tony chuckles. She won’t be going after Gus anytime soon.

 

***

 

“I need out.” Tony snaps.

Bruce looks up “Tony…”

“Don’t. Don’t, I know I’m a monster now but if I don’t get out I’m going to _crumble._ ”

Tony has been in the cell for a week. His snacking times have evened out to about 500ml at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Bruce puts it down to the fact his body has had time to rest from the change. Now, Tony can even skip lunch and make it without going completely feral. He _is_ getting better.

Bruce still doesn’t trust him. Or not him. The new thing inside of him that makes him want to kill that he can’t quite control. 

Bruce _knows_ what that feels like.

“I am going _stir fucking crazy_ in here, Bruce,” as is to illustrate he moves so fast that Bruce can barely see it happen and presses his palms against the glass “I need to _get out,_ I need to _run_ or I think I’m going to lose it.”

“That’s not you,” Bruce says carefully “that’s the new instinct.”

Tony shudders visibly, his shoulders roll back “Bruce,” he says quietly “I don’t think you understand. I need to _hunt_ or this is going to get worse.”

Bruce is quiet. He does understand, really. He gets it, on a logical level and a personal one. It would help Tony to let go, to _hunt_ and release whatever instinct it is he has. And they can’t keep him in here forever. Either way, they’re options are to integrate him into society or—

The only problem being that for Tony hunting doesn’t mean a rifle and some deer.

“But it _could,”_ Tony pleads “you could just, just take me to a forest, let me,” he swallows, it’s clear the idea still disgusts him “hunt.”

Bruce shakes his head. It’s a shitty situation. So far Tony hasn’t mentioned anything about how _he_ feels about it but Bruce knows its only a matter of time. They can’t hide this from Rhodes, Pepper and Happy forever. They can’t hide it from the public. They certainly can’t hide it from SHIELD.

“That is… we could do that,” Bruce admits. Find an island, let him loose on the forests there. That way their wouldn’t be risk of collateral “but logistics, Tony. It would have to be night, we would have to come with you. And you would have to promise not to eat us.”

“I, look, you can feed me _before,_ extra large or whatever, just _please_ I’m losing my _mind_ in here, you’ve gotta understand that, I _know_ you understand that.” And he is pleading now, and Bruce is getting a whammy of those goddam pheromones and it’s getting very hard to stay neutral.

“I want to test you.” Bruce says “I want to get Steve down here and see if you can hold back.”

Tony nods “Yes, good, great, how soon can we get going?”

Bruce shakes his head “I’m sorry, Tony, there are other things we need to get through.”

He groans and bangs his head against the window “I’m going insane,” he whispers, then pauses, shrugs “more insane.”

Bruce snorts and looks back up at him “You would…” he says quietly “if there was something wrong, you would say?”

Tony leans back, his gold eyes guarded. Like this Bruce can appreciate why it was so easy for the vampire to trick Tony into his bed: he is stunning.

“Bruce, I’m a monster,” he says bluntly “I used to be a hero. At best, I’m able to control myself around humans for long periods of time. I get my company back, I continue being Iron Man. Then, of course, I won’t be ageing, people will ask _questions_ as to why exactly I’ve grown taller, I don’t _sleep,_ I look younger and my eyes have changed colour,” he shakes his head “no amount of persuasive jumbo that I spew is gonna convince people to ignore that.” He looks away “Worst case scenario, I snap, go crazy and massacre a town. Then I have to be put down. Or,” and he shudders “they take me in, they experiment on me. They get my blood and they change other people too. It wouldn’t be the stupidest thing shady parts of the government have done,” he says with a pointed look at Bruce “so there is plenty wrong, to answer you question,” and he smiles his blinding smile “but there’s fuck all I can do about it.”

Bruce pauses.

“I’ll see what I can do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony goes hunting.

“Just relax, Tony,” Natasha says “relax. Remember what Bruce taught you. No point freaking out, right?”

Tony stands, braced by the glass pane. Any moment now it’s going to be coming down and he’ll have access to Steve, who stands at the end of the corridor 

Steve.

He tries not to lick his lips.

“Uh huh,” he says distractedly, tries to keep himself in check. He can see every bit of Steve in shocking detail, right down to the fibres of his shirt. He can smell him, so fresh, and warm, and sweet and it makes him hungry even though he’s already eaten. He doesn’t know what it is, whether it’s because of the serum or something else but he just _needs_ him.

Steve waves from his end of the corridor and Tony snorts.

“Okay,” Clint says carefully “Bruce, you ready? Natasha?” 

They stand in another cell, safe from Tony if he does go psycho. If Tony moves to attack Steve at any point, Jarvis will activate the light flares. They will be safe, there is little room for mistake as long as everyone plays their part.

“Right, Tony, you all set?”

He nods. He needs this. He needs to get out.

“Okay,” Bruce nods and the sheet of window moves down.

Tony takes a single step and is suddenly hit by how _different_ everything feels. In there, he was protected, he finished his transformation in that box. Out here, everything feels _more._ He can sense the pressure of air on his skin, he can hear the energy that throbs throughout the building. He can smell _everything_ and oh _wow_ does Steve smell good.

“You just stay there, Tony, Steve will come to you.”

He can deal. He can deal with this. This is okay. He doesn’t feel the need to suck every drop of blood from Steve’s warm, plush, succulent body.

Steve walks closer, he’s not slow or timid, he just strolls and Tony shifts, more because of uncomfortableness than hunger. He’s a predator now, the sight of someone just _walking_ towards him sets him on edge.

Steve gets to the halfway point when he draw out a knife.

Tony hisses, crouches, loses himself for a moment because _threat_ and also what exactly is Steve planning on doing with that knife?

“Steve,” someone, Bruce, Bruce says warningly.

“I’m not gonna hurt him,” and then he holds out his palm and draws the knife across it.

The smell is. The smell. Tony can’t. He doesn’t want to hurt Steve, he doesn’t. But it smells so _good._

“Don’t,” he grits “go away.” But Steve continues to advance, slower, but still moving.

Tony tenses, every muscle in his body pulled taut. If he wanted, he could spring and be on Steve in a second.

He howls and clutches his stomach.

“It’s okay, Tony. If you can deal with this you can deal with anything.” He speaks soothingly and it helps, his voice helps.

“Steve, you need to stop,” someone says.

“No,” he says calmly and keeps on walking. He’s close, now, and Tony can’t do it.

He drops to his knees, moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will help.

“Go,” he snarls, rasps “you can’t—”

He’s so close and Tony can’t he can’t he can’t he can feel it coming but Steve is there, he’s right there, he’s so close he could just—

He stops in front of him and Tony fights, he fights everything he is. He stuffs his knuckles into his mouth, bites, keens with it and rocks, anything to stop the scent, Jesus, Steve has no idea, he’s _right there,_ and his blood is _so close._

He crawls back, moves back and back, scuttles until he’s back in his cell, presses into the corner and moans into the wall “Stop,” he rasps “stopstopstopstopstop.”

The wall goes up but the smell remains and it drives him insane. He rocks, bites his lip so hard it draws blood and then he’s up, slamming against the window, he lets go completely “ _Give it to me!”_ He screams “GIVE IT TO ME!” 

He moves back and then runs, braces with his shoulder and crashes into the window again and again, he needs to get at Steve or, or—

The lights flare and he reels back, screaming, it hurts, it hurts, oh god it _burns._

He collapses into the corner and whimpers, licks his wounds and shields his eyes. His skin is on fire and he gasps with it, knocks his head back against the wall.

As he comes back to himself he falls into despair. He’s a monster, he’s a monster, he is irredeemable and he’ll spend the rest of his life in this cell or being tortured and experimented on or dead. He wants out.

When he looks up, some time later, he sees his teammates standing by the window. They’re shocked, which isn’t surprising, but then his vision clears completely and he sees where a long crack has formed in the glass.

Ah.

 

***

 

“I am… so sorry about that.” Steve scratches the back of his head and Tony huffs.

It’s a cold night, he doesn’t _feel_ cold but he can tell it’s cold.

“I didn’t want to push you that far.”

“No,” Tony murmurs “I can imagine that would have ended badly for you.”

“But you held on, right? That has… that’s got to count for something.”

Tony shrugs “I’m here now and I don’t want to eat you, so,” he smiles “everything’s coming up Tony.”

They were in a quinjet on their way to — well, an ‘island’ probably wasn’t the best way to describe it, more like a hunk of rock — just of the Alaskan coast. It would be isolated, dark and perfect.

This was the equivalent of taking your child to the playground — that is, if your child happened to have a seemingly unlimited strength and a thirst for human blood. If Tony felt bitter about it then he kept to himself, he wasn’t going complain.

This was another test, of course. If it turns out he can drink animal blood then it’s a big step forward. People eat animals all the time, he could take weekly ‘hunting trips’ or maybe move up here full time. That wasn’t that bad. He could still work, maybe, and send things to Pepper. Occasionally he could head down to New York, say hi. It wouldn’t be a bad life, all things considered. And if it become apparent that they cannot find a cure then over time, (Tony swallows) then over time, when his friends passed on a solitary life would be the only one afforded to him.

Or he could find Gus. Find other vampires. Maybe make his own.

He pushes the idea from his head and tries to focus on the idea of fresh food.

 

***

 

The air from the quinjet causes Tony’s hair to stand on end. It whips it round his face but it’s clear he doesn’t notice, not when he wears only athletic gear, a vest top and running bottoms.

Steve wonders if Tony knows that his eyes glow in the dark. He’s not gonna mention it, he’s probably done enough.

“Okay,” Natasha says briskly “you wear this on your wrist, it’s a tracker. You go more than 30 feet into the water, or try and take it off it releases light flares,” she looks apologetic “sorry.”

Tony shrugs.

“When you’re done, you press this button, on the underside,” she turns his wrist and points it out “and if you get into trouble you press this one, okay?”

“Right.”

“We’ll all be in the quinjet. We won’t take off but — look, just don’t come back and eat us, okay? And you have to be done before the sun rises, Tony stop that, listen to me, you _have to be_ right?”

Tony smiles, salutes “Got it,” then he pauses peers around “what exactly am I supposed to do?”

Bruce shrugs “I don’t know, don’t you have any crazy instincts screaming at you right now?”

Tony frowns “Yeah, actually,” and he kicks off his shoes “they’re uncomfortable.”

Clint snorts “Right, but do you feel like a wild predator or what?”

“I don’t know, mostly I’m happy to be out,” and then he shakes his head, his hair brushing from side to side.

“Look out for wolves. And bears. And moose. Mooses. Meeses? What’s the plural of moose?” Clint asks.

“Oh my god, okay, I’m done here,” and Tony turns, makes to run “I’ll be home before curfew.” And then he sprints, or Steve thinks he sprints, it’s hard to tell because he’s gone so fast that all he feels is the wind left behind as it threatens to throw him off balance and actually knocks Natasha down.

He probably did it on purpose.

 

***

 

Tony feels _alive._ He feels genuinely, perfectly alive. This is like nothing he’s ever felt, it’s better than flying, it’s the feeling of earth under his feet and the cold wind in his hair and it’s brilliant. 

He runs for so long, he loses track. He thinks he laps the island but he doesn’t care. After so much time spent in that cell it’s amazing to just _let go._

He hears a rustle in the the forest and veers off. He can hear everything but certain noises just mean more, like the sound of food.

It’s a bear. It’s a big, black bear and Tony giggles. This is brilliant, it will fight and he’ll be able to take it down, sink his teeth in, take every bit of it, so warm, and _living._

He circles and the bear raises onto it’s haunches. It wants to fight, fight, _fight_ and that’s good, that’s what he needs.

He’s curious, as well. He wants to know his limits. And he wants to know how he hurts. So when the bear swipes a claws and it drags down his torso he takes it.

And it _hurts,_ that much is clear, he can still feel _pain._

So he screams with it, let’s himself roll with the blow. But then he’s up, and it’s so quick when he breaks it’s neck that it’s just not _satisfying._

He straddles the carcass and sinks his teeth into the neck beneath the fur. Maybe he should be disgusted but he can’t be bothered, the thought of sinking his teeth into something big and strong and warm is too alluring but now it’s dead, anyway, and he’s got hair in his mouth and he wanted to _hunt_ just killing isn’t very fun.

He drinks it all down anyway but the satisfaction’s not there.

He strips off what’s left of his vest and inspects the raw wound on his chest. It hurts, it actually hurts and he bites his lip to stop from moaning. Now that the adrenalin or whatever it was the caused him to stop feeling the pain has faded it burns and he wants it gone. But then there’s a small rustle, a flash of eyes.

It’s not an animal.

He gives chase, sprints and runs and it’s exhilarating, he’s chasing, hunting, he’s going to get them, get them and sink his teeth in and suck them dry and they’ll be so hot and willing and it’ll feel so _good._

He follows the figure through the woods, the trees and dirt and he must be filthy with it, with blood and mud and sweat but he doesn’t stop. Someone followed him, or was after him and now he’s going to get them and it will be—

He doesn’t notice that he’s entered a clearing or that the figure has stopped: he just barrels straight into him. And trips and rolls. He skids across the dirt, the stones and sticks cutting into the side of his body, skinning him in some places.

He whines as the figure crouches over him.

“Anthony,” Gus says fondly “I told you to come and find me.”

He snarls and jumps, swipes a hand and pushes Gus into the ground “You _asshole,”_ he grits out “you first class _asshole.”_ He punches him once, and then twice, and then again and again until Gus rolls him over, and he’s stronger than him, Tony knows that the force with which they are holding each other would crush a normal man but right now Gus has just got that edge.

He looms over him “I thought you had forgotten me,” he grins, those blue eyes flash “I was right, though, about you. You are beautiful.” His eyes rake over Tony’s sweating, bloody torso.

“Oh, I want some of that,” and he goes to lick at the bears blood.

Tony knees him and then _he’s_ on top again and Gus is laughing.

“How did you find me?” He demands “How did you know where to go?”

“Oh Tony,” he starts “there’s just so much you don’t know,” he sighs “you need me to help you, you understand that, don’t you? You’ll just flounder on your own, expose us all—”

He lunges and presses Tony underneath him, chest pressed to the ground.

“What did you do, stalk us?” Oh god, the others, what if he—

“I knew where you were, Tony. I always knew. I’m your _maker_ don’t you understand? I always know where you are.”

“I didn’t want this.”

Gus chuckles and straddles Tony’s hips. He presses his head into the dirt and Tony just can’t push it back up, Gus _is_ stronger than him.

“Let me explain something, because you’re only a child and you don’t understand,” he rakes fingernails down Tony’s olive skinned back “I have given you a _gift._ You will respect me in my position as your _maker,_ that’s just how it goes, Tony.” 

He flexes beneath him, tries to draw up his head, arches his spine and presses his hips back.

Gus sighs “You can do that again, if you want, I’m not complaining.”

Tony falls still beneath him and Gus lets up the pressure on his head.

“So you can stalk me,” Tony gasps “what else do I need to know?”

“Stretch your arms in front.”

“Go to hell!” Tony protests but then Gus just does it for him.

“I’m _helping you,_ shut up and take it,” he begins running his hands over his back “every vampire has one, a spot, an Achille’s heel, if you will,” Tony can _feel_ him smirk “I just need to find yours. Tell me if you feel something.”

“That depends on what I’m supposed to be feeling,” Tony grumbles.

“You’ll know when I find it, turn over,” he orders and crouches up so Tony can twist his hips. He presses Tony’s arms out to either side of him and clinically begins to rub down his arm, in between his fingers. He trails down to his shoulders and then repeats on the other side.

He frowns “Maybe the chest, then,” and he starts swirling his fingers there as well. When Tony is unresponsive he shakes his head “This can’t be right,” and he pulls the hair of a baleful looking Tony back into the dirt, baring his neck. He trails his fingers along the skin under his chin but all Tony does is glare at him.

Gus slides down Tony’s legs and leans over his belly “Maybe lower,” he says and pushes his hand into Tony’s pants.

“Hey—” but Gus just shushes him and runs his hand along the waistband, feels the skin trapped under it and _then_ Tony gasps, his back arches and he moans despite himself.

“Oh, oh don’t — ah, don’t stop,” he whines and Gus smirks.

“Found it.” He says, smug “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Wha— what…” His eyes roll into his head and his body goes completely loose as Gus breaks the zip on his pants and trails his fingers from the spot that goes from just above his groin to just below his naval.

“This,” he rubs, soft and gentle and Tony moans “is your Achille’s heel. We all have one. It feels good now, but…” With a tone of reproach he pinches and Tony shouts, back arches off the ground with such force he nearly knocks Gus off and he’s left gasping for air.

“Jesus— what the _fuck?_ ” He demands.

“If you are going to die, this is where the bullet needs to hit. It’s the only place you can be killed like a regular person. I assumed it would be higher, that’s where mine is and usually children take after their maker.” He finally gets up, lets Tony relax. He holds out a hand and Tony takes it, lets him hoist him up.

“You see, Tony, you can’t do this without me. There’s just too much you don’t know.”

“Then start,” Tony nods “tell me why you changed me.”

Gus laughs “I will only take _high blood_ for my for children. I’ve been planning you for a long time. We all have. It was decided that I would be your maker.”

“Who? All of you? How many _are_ there?”

Gus shrugs “More than you know. We’re ancient, Stark, we span back thousands of years. My own mother sits on the council, she was born in Greece,” he smiles “some 224 years before Christ.”

“Jesus, she must be getting on.”

“Not at all, she doesn’t look a day over twenty,” he pauses “and she wants to meet you. You are her first grandson, after all.”

Tony frowns “What, you only changed women?” 

He laughs “No, I only changed you.”

Tony pauses, looks up.

“I’m not gonna call you daddy.”

Gus laughs again, high and loud. “When your team finally let you go, Tony, I’ll be waiting. Mother wants to see you and we have plans.”

“No,” Tony shakes his head “no, I’m sorry, I’m not doing anything for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m a monster, Gus. You changed me into a monster. I _eat_ people, I want to physically _drink_ people’s blood and you think that, what, that I’ll just want to help you, is that it? That I’ll just accept that?” He steps forward, braces himself for a fight he knows he can’t win.

“You’re more than them now, Tony,” Gus says softly “humans? They’re _meat._ Before, you would eat beef and lamb, well now there’s no difference. We’re _better_ than them, faster, stronger, more intelligent, you can’t deny.”

He shakes his head “I can’t eat my friends, Gus.”

“Your friends will die, Stark,” Gus’s voice is hard “they will age, and wither, and grow old and _die_ and then you will be left alone. That’s why we have council, that’s why we have rules. It’s why we pick our families so carefully. You can’t have them anymore.”

“Don’t tell me that. Don’t bother.” Tony snaps.

“You are a _child_ Tony, it would be irresponsible of me to let you loose in the wild. You need to see your grandmother. We _picked you,_ we _chose you_ to be part of our family. There is no ulterior motive here, you’ll see.”

Tony shakes his head “You’re crazy.”

“If you don’t like it, press that button,” he gestures to the strap on Tony’s wrist “go on.”

“I’m not going to risk them.”

“No,” he smirks “you keep telling yourself that. I will find you, Tony, and I will be taking you to the council whether you want it to be willing or not,” and then he pauses “you’ll understand one day when you have your own children.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ do you _hear_ yourself?”

He chuckles and then delicately sniffs at the air.

He frowns, his lips turn down “Come here.”

“Uh, no.”

Gus strides until he’s taken every bit of personal space Tony has and he’s backed against a tree. He smells him, a long, deep sniff, and the he recoils.

He slaps his face.

“ _You’ve imprinted,”_ he hisses “ _you’ve—”_ He draws away “My only child and— _a human!_ Of all people… who are they? Tell me, Stark, who is it?”

Tony is still reeling from the force of the blow “Wha’?” he manages.

Gus’s hands slam into the bark of the tree on either side of Tony’s face.

“You. Have. _Imprinted._ You have picked a _human_ to be your partner, a _human,_ my only son, and you’ve imprinted, oh _hell_ what is mother going to say?”

Tony shakes his head, pushes him away “You’re crazy.”

Gus shakes his head “It’s my fault,” he seems to decide “it’s my fault, I didn’t protect you, I should have stayed the night, made sure you got everything. You can’t control it, I know you can’t.” He sighs “Oh my poor boy,” and then he literally squishes Tony into one of the most uncomfortable hugs of his life and strokes his hair “it’s alright, we’ll fix this, I can fix this. It’s all going to be alright.”

“I don’t even know what’s wrong,” he mumbles into Gus’s suit shirt.

He gently draws him back “You’ve imprinted,” he says, like one would to a child “you—” he sighs “let me break it down: you have, biologically speaking, formed an intense infatuation with a human that can only be broken upon death, in which case you will be left an emotionally destitute wreck with little less to live for, will most likely lose your mind, and end up spending the rest of eternity living a life of seclusion in a remote woodland area in the hope that humans will walk by and bring some flavour to your life.”

Tony blinks.

“That’s not actually helpful.”

Gus looks him straight in the eye, takes his head in his hands and says:

“Listen, Tony, because this is the one time that I will give you advice that may potentially go against the councils wishes. You need to _change_ your imprint, understand? You need to change them _now._ Because the council doesn’t care if they’re a man, or woman, or a park bench, they just can’t be _human._ I am saying this because I care and because you need to know that if they’re _not_ one of us then I will not be afraid to kill them immediately and without remorse, no matter how you feel.”

Tony reels back “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then you’ll figure it out. If they don’t love you back it won’t be long before you fall into a crippling depression.”

“When you say change…”

“Into a vampire. Obviously. You can’t just _change_ the person you’ve imprinted on.”

“What about you? Do you have someone?”

He smiles “Of course. And I’m going to go now so you enjoy playtime while it lasts. The sun will be coming up soon.”

He turns and says “I _will_ be coming for you Anthony. And I’m not always this nice. Also, smoking helps with the cravings. It won’t hurt you, so you might want to give it a try.”

And then he is gone.

 

***

 

“Take the quinjet up,” Natasha says as soon as Tony leaves “everybody in, quickly. 

Bruce frowns “Natasha? What—”

“I’ll explain where we’re up there, come on.”

Clint looks uncertain “Nat, if we’re leaving him…”

She rolls her eyes “Don’t be stupid I wouldn’t leave him here. He’d find a way out and murder me horrifically now _get in._ ”

Steve watches warily as everyone climbs in and then follows suit.

Once up in the air Natasha tells Clint to just keep them up.

“We need to talk,” she says.

“Okay,” Steve says “you obviously feel whatever you have to say is very important.”

Her eyes narrow “We need a definitive answer: what are we going to do? Because we have options and we need to take them.”

“Do we notify SHIELD?” Clint asks.

“No,” Bruce says “no, we know what’ll happen.”

Natasha nods “Fine, okay. Then what do we do?”

“We tell Pepper and Rhodes,” Steve starts “we get him some… contact lenses. We can put down the new appearance to a midlife crisis, say he had surgery and we train him to withstand the smell of blood.”

“Okay,” Natasha says slowly “but we need to rational.”

“I am being rational,” Steve says levelly “and I’m saying that we need to _help him_ live as normal a life as possible.”

“I don’t disagree, Cap,” she looks at him carefully “but we need to have… insurance.”

“You want a plan to kill him?”

“I am saying that there may come a time when it is best to _take him down_ Steve and if you can’t see that then you need to buck the fuck up. He was going to eat you, one uncontrolled moment is all it takes, one person to cut their palm and he would on them in a _second—”_

“Don’t you talk about him like that. Don’t. You understand? All of you. We _know_ he can control himself, if he could stop himself from attacking me with my blood _right there_ for him to take then there’s no reason why not, okay? And he can get better. He will.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re giving him much of choice there, Cap.” Bruce says.

“Tony took a chance with you, Bruce,” Steve says, quietly “I would like to hope you will return the favour.”

An intake of breath. And then he nods.

“Okay. Okay I’m with Steve.”

“Thank you.” He says.

“I think you might be coming at this the wrong way,” Clint says tactfully “I think we need to ask Tony what he wants. Because, and hear me out, I know this isn’t a popular opinion, but if Tony thinks he can’t handle it then we might have to… end it. For him. Because if the alternative is him killing, or some kind of lock-up then I think we all know that’s not what Tony wants.”

“That is… that is an equally valid point,” Steve concedes although it pains him. He doesn’t want Tony dead, full stop, let alone dead by his own hand.

“You’re talking as if we know there’s some way to kill him,” Natasha says bitterly “we know he’s immortal. You can’t just stick a knife in him anymore.”

“We’ll deal with that when we come to it,” Steve argues.

“What if it comes to it _now,_ Steve? You can’t be naive about this—”

“Please don’t mistake hope and belief in a friend as naivety, Natasha. I thought we were past this,” he says softly.

“Can I ask when exactly you became Tony’s best friend?” And Clint doesn’t sound cruel, just genuinely questioning.

“I— we were friends. Before.” Steve answers defensively.

“Right,” Clint says “except you weren’t.”

“I can defend a team-mate no matter what.”

There’s silence when Bruce says “What happens if I find a cure?”

Steve just looks at him “Find a cure.”

 

***

 

When Tony gets back the sun is rising.

Steve stands with his back to the quinjet, arms crossed and hair tinted in the rising sun.

Tony is filthy. His shirt is long gone, there is mud on his finely muscled chest and blood, too. There are white scars just below his collar bones that are nearly finished healing. He’s also soaking wet.

“You’re cutting it fine,” Steve says with a gesture to the rising sun.

“I took a bath,” he looks down at himself “ish.”

Steve opens the hatch “Be quiet,” he says “they’re asleep.”

“You’re driving?”

“I thought you might like to.”

He nods “We need to talk.”

Once they’re seated Steve starts “I’m sorry, but I need to ask: are you going to suck my blood? Because I would appreciate the heads up.

Tony snorts “Not even a little bit, Stevie. The run did me good. I feel better. I’ve eaten and I’ve… released energy. All good.”

“Good,” Steve sounds relieved “that’s, that’s great.”

They sit in silence.

“Can I ask you a question? Hypothetically?”

Steve narrows his eyes “Okay.”

“If I told you, and again, this is all completely, you know, _hypothetical,_ but if I told you that, how do I put this, I had, hmm, bonded with you wholly and fully in a vampirical imprint that will only end if you die at which point I would descend into crippling depression, what would you say?”

Steve pauses “Tony.”

“Yah.”

“Have you bonded with me wholly and fully in a vampirical imprint that will only end if I die at which point you would descend into crippling depression?”

“You forgot _hypothetically._ ”

“Ah. Right. How could I be so stupid.” Steve grits out.

Tony sighs “Look, I, well, I didn’t _want_ this to happen, okay? Truly, I didn’t. But life is being a bit shitty right now.”

“Yeah.” Steve says. And then “Can I ask, what exactly does that mean?”

Tony grimaces “I’m waiting to find out,” a pause “I mean, I think it’s why I love you so much.”

Time stops.

“Your blood. Why. I love. Your blood. Not you. I mean, obviously I like you. Just not like that. Unlessthat’s your thing! And there’s nothing wrong, with, with that. I don’t have a problem with, yeah. I am, I am going to stop talking.”

“Is it, uh,” Steve clears his throat “do you know, is it a two-way thing?”

“Why, you got a thing for my blood too?”

Steve smiles softly “Something like that.”

Tony turns the corners of his mouth down and nods “Uh, why? Like, I know I’m great but I tried to, well, _eat you._ You could probably do better. Not that you’re, uh, trying. For me. Obviously.”

“You’re supposed to be suave. This vampire thing. It’s supposed to make you charismatic.”

Tony looks outraged “I _am_ charismatic! I’m just… I’m going to ruin your life, Steve,” he says softly.

“No,” Steve takes his hand “no, Tony, you being in love with me is the opposite of a problem.”

Tony smiles but then it falls “Then you’re stupid,” he whispers, voice hoarse “the vampire that changed me. Gus. He found me. Out there.”

“What?” Steve breathes “why didn’t you _say,_ you could have pressed your button—”

“He was stronger than me, Steve. There’s no way— and when he found out, about the imprint… Steve, he told me I needed to change you. Into a vampire. Or that the council — the vampire council, sorry, I should have mentioned — he said that they would kill you.” He swallows “Or worse. I don’t know.”

“The council? There’s a _council?_ ”

Tony sighs wearily “He said that they picked me because, well, he said they’d been planning it and that they picked me because they thought I’d be a good choice.”

Steve scoffs “You’re honestly telling me there was no ulterior motive?”

Tony shrugs “Apparently. Gus wants me to meet his mother. Well, no, I mean I’m required to go to the council. For something. I don’t know.”

Steve nods “Okay, but you’re not going to go. I’ve just decided.”

Tony laughs but sobers pretty quickly “They will kill you, Steve. These people don’t fuck around.”

“I know that. But we’ve beat worse.”

Tony shakes his head “I just don’t know.”

Steve looks at him “Anything else?”

Tony stills.

“I can’t… look, we know it’s difficult for me to die.”

“Right,” Steve says slowly.

“And I’m going to tell you this you need to know, just in case, right?”

“… Right.”

“I have a spot. On my belly. Uh, it’s a bit complicated? But if you stab me there I’m supposed to die. Also, it’s a bit— it’s hypersensitive. I don’t even know what to compare it to, being touched there is like…” he shudders.

“He touched you?” Steve asks with only a hint of threat.

“He had to. To find it.”

“So he knows, then. If he decides he needs you dead, he knows where to go.”

Tony swallows “Right. I know that.”

Steve looks away “So, we’ll deal. We always do.”

Tony clears his throat “Why are you suddenly so invested in me?”

“I could actually ask you the same,” Steve says with a smile.

 

***

 

Back at the tower, Tony sends Steve to bed. He protests, of course, but all Tony really needs to do it look up at him through his lashes and ask him nicely and he’s so tired that Tony’s voice works it’s magic and he’s moving like a zombie to his bed.

With time to himself for the first time in a week Tony goes down to the garage, opens a new file:

“Call it, no, don’t call it something obvious, call it ‘Summer Vacation.”

“Are you planning on going somewhere, Sir?”

“We’ll see, J, we’ll see.”

He sets up his escape route. One day soon it may be necessary the he needs to disappear and he wants to be ready.

“Uh, J?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I want you to add supplies for Steve. Make room for him in the plan.” He says softly.

A beat.

“Of course, Sir.”

“Also, order me cigarettes.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Steve have a miscommunication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got this plotted but I'm writing it as I go along so, unfortunately, there will be no set time schedule. I do try to update as often as I can, though!

Tony can’t get him out of his head.

And that is, he realises, incredibly cliché. He gets that. But he’s been turned into a vampire who thirsts for human blood and can’t stand sunlight it’s not like it’s the most stereotypical thing to have happened recently.

It worries him immensely that Steve will not love him back. Ever.

If Tony could sleep, it would probably be keeping him up, but because he no longer has that need he now has plenty of time to muse on all of his shortcomings, every single reason why Steve Rogers would _not_ like to be with him, joint first being that he is a vampire and that, as far as _he_ knows, Steve does not like men.

Now that the need for food is being dampened by thrice daily meals of blood the urgency is beginning to dissipate, he no longer worries that he’ll be left stranded without dinner and is easily able to stand being in a room with people as long as he’s fed.

Steve, however, is a different matter. 

It’s not that he loses his _mind_ when he’s nearby, just that he’s not in complete control. Steve’s blood is ten times more appetising to him than the others and it’s a daily struggle not to lick his lips when he’s around. Even harder not to resist the urge — and Tony really _doesn’t_ know where this has come from — to lick every bit of him. It’s actually easier to think that that’s a food thing when really Tony knows it’s his own goddam vampiric libido running out of control.

It must be the imprint. The imprint. It’s such a strange idea and Tony hates it, hates that he can’t help over-reacting to everything Steve does, that he can’t be in the same room with him without losing his mind. He hates that a man he was once on semi-decent terms with is now the axis on which his world turns. It’s disturbing and wrong and bad, bad for him and more importantly bad for _Steve_ because he deserves better than him and he is a _vampire_ and he would probably end up eating him anyway, everyone can see how that relationship would end but he can’t stop _thinking_ about him and he hates it, hates this, hates everything this has done to him.

He misses sleep, and coffee and burgers and salad. He misses sunlight and New York and the _people._ He misses a time when he could just walk out of his tower with little thought, go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted. All that’s gone. He’ll never get his company back like this. They’re better off saying that he’s contracted some terminal disease and has to spend the rest of his life in bed.

Even if he _could_ leave the tower he _can’t,_ can he, because this is probably the only place Gus can’t find him. Or get to him. The second he leaves he is opening himself to danger and the wrath of the council when they demand why he hasn't _changed_ Steve yet, Steve who is a human being, who doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to have Tony breathing down his neck all the goddam time.

With limitless time on his hands and nothing to do, Tony takes to spending most of it sitting on his couch, watching bad TV and smoking. Which he hasn’t done since he was younger, but a bit like riding a bike his lungs quickly acclimatise to the feel, as does his throat. Gus _was_ right, the nicotine helps with the urges.

He considers building, or updating, or whatever it is he usually does but can’t quite dredge up the energy, which is ironic considering he can’t sleep and can now move faster than he ever did before. He knows he should be trying to solve this, help with a cure, work on controlling his urges, find the council, but he finds it a lot more comforting to just sit on his couch and stare at a wall.

 

* * *

“Is he moving?”

“He’s— wait! No, no, he was just turning over.”

Steve rubs his eyes “Has he moved _at all_ in the past twelve hours?”

Clint shrugs “To light some smokes. Aaand that’s it.”

“That can’t be healthy,” Steve frowns.

“Dude, he sucks blood, I don’t think cigarettes are his biggest problem,” Clint snorts “give him time to… acclimatise.”

“I’m not _talking_ about the cigarettes, Clint.”

Tony had spent the past week moping in his garage, only coming out when the sun set to check everyone was still alive, at which point he would make small talk with everyone but Steve and then crawl back down to his hole to watch Toddler and Tiaras on re-run until the sun came back up. Then he would watch America’s Next Top Model which, Steve concedes, makes for great television.

The cigarettes added to the general air of misanthropy; Steve was getting worried. Could vampires get into funks? Seemed so.

“I just, I feel like I should _do_ something,” Steve worries his lip, gestures at the screen “I mean, come on, you can’t say that’s _normal,_ or, what.”

Clint grimaces “It’s rough. For him, obviously. He’s… it’s a lot to come to terms with.”

“We should be helping,” Steve insists “if this was anything else, if it was any other reason that made him like this, we would be on it. We can’t just—

“Okay, I know that.” Clint rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands “ _But,_ and don’t take this personally, you and him? You…” he shakes his head, lowers his voice “Steve, he’s working that creepy mumbo jumbo magic pheromones crap on you, okay? And I know he doesn’t realise it but it’s obviously having an effect on you.”

“That’s bull, Clint,” Steve says, crossing his arms “Tony hasn’t talked to me in days.”

Clint snorts “Yeah, because when he _does_ talk to _anyone_ he spends half the time using it as an excuse to gaze at you. Do you think I’m joking? Steve, he’s like a lovesick _puppy!_ Don’t you see?” He gestures wildly at the screen “ _That’s_ why he’s moping. He’s got a little _crush_ and doesn’t think you like him back.” He finishes and leans back against the counter.

“That’s not… no.” Steve shakes his head “You’re wrong.”

But of course he’s not, is he. Because Tony told him, he told him about the ‘imprint’ and it wasn’t that Steve didn’t _care_ it was that he just wasn’t sure where he _stood_ with Tony anymore. Because one day, they were work colleagues and the next Tony was claiming that he empathised with Steve on a cellular level. It was a lot to take in. And it’s not that he _doesn’t_ find Tony, you know, _attractive,_ or interesting, or sweet and generous and _kind,_ and clever, witty, a firecracker, probably great in bed—

It’s just that he’s never had time to consider a relationship with him. It’s not that he’s a guy. That’s never been a problem. Steve has always seen guys and girls on a even playing field for him, he’s found attractive men and attractive women. He just doesn’t _know_ how to go about it with Tony, would he think Steve was only interested because of the imprint? Because Tony could now drive him insane with the feeling of his tongue on his skin? Admittedly, the vampire thing drew up some complications, yes. But Steve was willing to work around it.

Was Clint right? Was Tony moping because he thought Steve wasn’t interested? He had said that if Steve died he thinks he would fall into ‘crippling depression’ and it was confusing, Steve just doesn’t know what he means. Could he be depressed now, because Steve hasn’t talked to him? Maybe he should talk to him. Tony might not want to approach him, because he has a habit of trying to take a bite out of him, but still. If a relationship is going to work it needs help on both ends. Not that this is a ‘relationship’ relationship. Tony can’t _help_ who he bonded to, it’s not his fault. Christ, he probably doesn’t want to be with Steve.

And then it hits him. Tony _doesn’t_ want to be with him, but he can’t help it. The imprint has made the choice for him. So he skulking, unsure of what to do, probably hurting because he’s not getting comfort from the imprint that he _needs_ and doesn’t know what to do, because he doesn’t want to approach Steve but doesn’t want the imprint in equal measure.

Which makes sense, in a way.

“I’m… I’m gonna talk to him,” Steve decides, standing.

Clint huffs “Steve—”

“I’ll be fine!” Steve’s voice is forced “I’ll just go down there, ask him how he’s doing—”

“If you die it will be your fault and I’m not going to help you, Jarvis? Jarvis, can you make a note of this?”

“Noted.”

“Clint,” Steve looks at him pointedly “It will be _fine.”_

 

* * *

“Hey Tony?”

The lithe form on the couch looks up, irritable, only to rest back down a moment later.

“Smoking’s bad for you.” Steve starts, crossing the room with only a hint of caution.

Tony slowly breathes out a long puff of smoke. “No shit,” he intones, taking another drag “I don’t think it really matters, somehow.”

Steve chuckles, scuffs his shoe on the floor. What was he going to say? What did he come down here to say?

“So you seem to be coping… well.”

Tony snorts, sits up on his couch “I am coping, if that’s what you mean. ‘Well’ isn’t the word I’d use.” But then he looks at Steve, and it’s a mixture of sad and hopeful and Steve can’t for the life of him work out what it means.

Steve stands, awkwardly, a few feet away from Tony’s seat. Thinks.

“So I wanted to ask you,” he starts “this imprint, business—”

Tony looks away, almost imperceptibly “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“—I was wondering what exactly thats gonna mean for me. You. Us, for us, I mean.”

Tony looks pained, and he puts his cigarette out on his wrist with barely a flinch “I’ll… I’ll figure something out. There’s a lot I have to figure out, actually. I think,” he looks Steve straight in the eye “I’m thinking that I should go. To the council, I mean, to the council of vampires. The vampire council. Christ.” He shakes his head “Isn’t this fucked up?” He looks at Steve as if expecting him to shrug and agree with a smile but Steve’s eyes go cold.

“You take one step near that council and I swear to God, Tony.”

And this makes Tony raises an eyebrow “Excuse me?”

Steve shakes his head “I’m telling you that you don’t go near them,” and his tone changes, turns to pleading “please, Tony, don’t be stupid, just— Christ, just don’t do anything stupid.”

Tony swallows, looks down “Do you… do you really not want me to go?”

Steve looks relieved “Of course.”

“Why.”

Steve sighs “Tony, we don’t… they’re gonna eat you up and spit you out, that’s why,” and his voice hardens again.

Tony stands, and it’s getting increasingly difficult not to notice his newly toned physique, especially with the way he stalks towards him “If I don’t do something, _Steve,”_ he glares “then we’re going to be stuck in shit, you realise that, right? Because it’s not just me, it’s you, too.”

Steve scoffs “They won’t get me, Tony, you don’t need to _worry,_ about me, I am— I can handle what they’re going to throw this way. I’m worried about what they’re going to do to _you.”_

And then Tony shakes his head again, in almost disbelief “Steve, they are going to kill you. Gus made that clear, he told me, and, look, he’s not the type of guy to freely offer advice, but he _told me_ that if I don’t change you then you’re going to be dead,” Steve opens his mouth but Tony continues regardless “and I’m not having that on my conscious for however long I may live. Which will be a long time, apparently.” His jaw clenches. “Just… _you_ don’t need to worry about it. The imprint. I’ll go to the council, explain. Maybe they’ll listen when they realise that it wasn’t intentional.”

Wasn’t intentional. Wasn’t. Tony doesn’t want this, why would he want this, Steve’s not disappointed, of course not, any bad feelings come from the bruising his ego gets at the idea of someone not liking him. That’s fine, that doesn’t matter. Tony matters. Not like that, obviously, but he matters in that it’s important to keep him safe, now, until he can stand on his own two feet. Preferably without thirsting for blood.

“Tony,” Steve says softly “is there… you said, about the imprint, that if I don’t—”

Tony looks up sharply “Don’t. It doesn’t have to affect _you,_ you just let me figure it out, okay?” His voice it terse, strained.

He is lying.

“Would you stop interrupting me?” Steve says gently “Tony, is there anything you need from me?”

Tony blinks “Need, as in…”

Steve reaches out a hand, places it carefully on Tony’s shoulder. Squeezes lightly.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Tony gets out, voice thick “it— you still smell really good.”

Steve does not take his hand from his shoulder.

“Steve,” he warns, voice low “don’t be stupid.”

“You’re telling _me_ not to be stupid?”

Tony shakes his hand off of his shoulder “I’m telling you not to play this. I’m not— you can’t _control_ me, Steve. I could kill you, I could,” he shudders “you don’t understand how _good_ you smell. You— better than anyone else, better.”

Steve eyes him warily but will not stand down “Because of the imprint.”

Tony nods, breathy “I would assume so, yeah.”

Steve takes a step closer and Tony flinches.

“Maybe you should go now, Steve,” he says, voice worn all of a sudden “I need to eat.”

“I still have things I need to ask you.”

“If you don’t leave then I am going to suck you dry, get _out._ ” Tony snaps.

Steve rolls his head on his neck, looks Tony in the eye “You ate three hours ago, I know you’re not hungry.”

Tony looks at him sadly, there’s no mistaking that look. And Steve suddenly wonders why _he’s_ not just _offering_ to feed him, it would help Tony a lot if he just let him take some of his own blood. Tony obviously wants to and Steve can’t see why not.

“The imprint,” Tony murmurs “I’m sorry, I’ve been, I should have told you before.”

“Told me what?” Steve says with a dazed grin.

“You make me hungry, Steve,” he says simply but it hits Steve in the gut because his presence is _hurting_ him, it’s _hurting_ Tony and he knows what will make it better, just a little taste of his blood will make all Tony’s troubles go away.

He holds out his wrist “Bite.” He says and Tony moves, fast, backs away and he’s standing in the corner of the garage in a second.

“ _Steve,”_ he hisses “Steve, don’t do that— _go,_ now.”

Steve sighs “Just a little bite will make you feel better, I know it will, c’mon, Tony,” he chides “you need to take care of yourself.”

Tony shakes his head frantically “Steve, this isn’t you. It isn’t, _stop,_ back away, just,” he inhales unconsciously, breathes in deep and his breath hitches when he catches Steve’s scent “you smell so good.” He whispers.

“I know,” Steve says with a smile “so you should just take a little nibble and then we can continue out conversation, because there’s a lot I need to ask you.”

Tony swallows “No. No, I,” he squeezes his eyes tight, groans behind his teeth “Jarvis? Jarvis, do something,” and he gasps it out, it’s like releasing hot air as he tries to fend off the hunger pangs. He hates this, he hates how Steve does this to him, he hates how he’s fucking _tricked_ him into just offering himself up, how he can’t even control that and how he control this, and how Steve’s being duped by his fucking pheromones or mind control or whatever it is he’s spewing out and he _can’t stop it_ and how he loves Steve, really really loves him, and Steve will never love him back, and the only reason he’s here is because Tony’s a fucking screw up, he’s a screw up and a slut and he let himself be taken in and now Steve is going to suffer.

He also, briefly, wonders how much of it is the imprint talking. If it’s made him fall head over heels for Steve. What was it Gus had said? Something about depression, something about him falling apart if his imprint didn’t love him back.

The thought just makes it harder not to lunge at Steve, pin him underneath him, suck and take and then let Steve play, let him touch that spot on his belly, let him take back after Tony has stolen from him.

He suppresses another shudder “Steve, please go.” He begs “Please, don’t make me _do this,_ I’m going to _destroy you—”_

“No you won’t!” He smiles “I trust you.”

Tony doubles over, clutches his palms to his mouth, and he’s getting close, he’s reaching that point where he feels like he’s losing himself, where his eyes are going to gloss over and he’s going to fall.

Steve walks closer, and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He’s standing right there. He’s so close. He’s so… just a little bite.

Tony lets himself be swayed, lets himself hook hands into Steve’s hair. He moves as if on autopilot and leans in, close.

He can feel Steve’s pulse beneath his mouth; his hot breath ghosts over his neck.

His eyes slide shut, his body goes lax, and he bites. He watches the first trickle of blood run clean down Steve’s pale, strong, corded neck and laps it up, runs his tongue down the hot flesh.

Steve moans beneath him but Tony doesn’t notice. He eases him down to the ground, sets himself above him and continues to suckle at the blood that wells on his neck. Small trickles, but enough to satisfy, to make him feel safe, and warm, and content. Tony feels himself going pliable as he take his fill, as Steve makes little noises beneath him.

It’s Tony’s turn to whimper when Steve’s hands comes to grasp at his waist, when he runs his fingers over his back. 

It feels good. Too good.

When Tony draws back, sated and pliant, Steve drags a finger over his belly, the place Tony told him that he was sensitive, his Achilles’ heel, and he watches as Tony’s eyes roll back into his head, how he goes completely loose under his fingers and how, as Steve draws soft fingertips in continuous little circles, he makes needy, begging sounds.

He watches Tony move beneath him, how docile he is when fed never ceases to amaze him. He loves this man, really, he—

Steve blinks and draws back. Tony whines at the loss of contact.

Jesus, what did he do. What did he, Tony had said, Tony had _told him_ to stay away, to not get close, and look at what he’s _done,_ oh God, fuck, he’d pressed himself on him anyway and now Tony—

“Steve?” He cocks his head, confused “Don’t stop, don’t.” He grabs Steve hand, presses it to his belly “Do that again, do it again, please.” His eyes are wide, and open, and obviously there’s been a miscommunication somewhere because whatever he’s done to Tony, whether it’s the blood or the contact, has made him like putty in his hands, and _Christ,_ that’s Steve’s fault because he’d _forced_ himself on him, hadn’t he? He’d made Tony like this for the sake of a few minutes pleasure, for the sake of Tony’s amazing tongue on his neck.

“I’m, God, I’m sorry Tony,” Steve blurts, drags his hand away “Christ, I can’t believe I did that, I’m sorry, shit,” he hisses “it won’t happen again.”

Tony blinks up from where he’s lying on the floor.

_Steve doesn’t want me_ is his first thought.

_I ate Steve_ was his second.

Oh God. Oh God, oh hell, he’d lost control, he’d given in, _fuck,_ he’s a monster, and Steve, shit, he’d dragged Steve down with him and Steve has no right, no right at all to be with something like this, to be with a monster. He’d fucking hit Steve with every trick in the book, Steve can’t stop himself, he can’t _control_ what he does when Tony gets hungry, when he starts spewing those pheromones, and it had hit Steve hard and he _drank his blood, oh God._

He scrambles away as fast as he can, moves back and presses himself against the wall.

“I’m sorry!” They say in unison, except Steve just comes closer as Tony tries to get away.

“I lost control,” Tony gasps “I’m sorry,” he says again “I won’t— it won’t happen twice. It won’t.” He shuts his eyes, shakes away “I’m going to go, I’m, where are my cigarettes, where,” He stands, and he’s almost wild, there’s a feral look in his eye.

“Tony,” Steve reaches but Tony bats him away, hard, too hard, he feels his wrist buck with the force of it and he gasps in pain, brings it close to his chest

Tony flinches back “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, fuck I didn’t mean to, I don’t want to hurt you,” he shakes his head, desperate “I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to leave you, I need to go, where are my cigarettes, _where are my CIGARETTES?”_ He screams, he can’t find them, he doesn’t know why he’s so _fixated_ on them, maybe it’s because they help control the hunger pangs just the slightest bit, help him feel in _control_ when right now he feels anything but, he feels like he’s unraveling at the seams and he _hurt Steve,_ fuck, fuck, he’s a monster now and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“I’m going, I’m going and you can’t stop me,” he says, heading for the exit by which he usually drives his cars out of “I’m sorry,” he says again, “I’m sorry.”

“Tony, wait, please, just, it’s not your fault it’s _mine,_ I shouldn’t have forced you—”

But then Clint and Natasha are banging on the glass door, demanding to be let in, and Jarvis holds firm, of course he does, Tony will miss him, he’ll miss all of them, but he needs to go before he kills them all, before he loses it and destroys them.

They deserve better.

Steve deserves better.

He runs.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter up tonight or tomorrow!

Tony runs.

And keeps on running.

He doesn’t stop till he reaches Alaska.

It’s dark out, but he manages to cross the entire United States of America before sunrise, at which point he realises he has no money, no phone, no way of contacting _anyone,_ no shirt, no shoes and what will soon be a homicidal vampire on his tail.

So he runs.

Vaguely, he remembers that he once had a house out here, not so much a home, more like an undercover panic-bunker that his dad had built during the 70’s. If he could find that, maybe, then he would be okay. There would be forests nearby, animals, _food,_ he could be safe there for a while. 

If he’s lucky, Steve won’t come looking. Equally, if he’s unlucky. Because already Tony feels bereft, cut loose, unsure of what to do. And he knows, as much as he _wants_ to deny it, he _knows_ it’s the bond.

So he’ll figure something out. He can make himself comfortable. Avoiding Gus would be hard but he’s done worse. Maybe he’ll be able to spend the rest of his life out here, he won’t hurt anyone, he won’t kill anyone, he can keep himself to himself. It might not even be that bad, really. So he’ll get lonely, yes, but Tony’s always been solitary.

Life could move on without him. It would be better for them to just forget him. And he feels like a bastard, and he feels like there is a part of him _tearing_ inside his chest, but he knows what he needs to do and he will not, _ever,_ let his team, his friends, _anyone,_ fall prey to what is inside of him, the monster that can’t quite be controlled, that is constantly screaming to be let out.

He wishes he brought cigarettes.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, updating will be sporadic as this is the time of year that real life kinda catches up with me. But this is not abandoned, ever. If you ever wonder, just drop me a line asking and I'll make sure to fill you in with when it might be updating. Also, we're getting into the real plot here so please comment to tell me what you think!

**Six months later:**

So, some 183 days exactly after Tony runs, Steve comes to the conclusion that he is in fact hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with the man.

Which hurts. Because Tony is gone. And Steve, Christ, Steve has _looked._ He has searched everywhere he knows Tony could be and then more, and he has dedicated weeks to planning, scouring, looking everywhere for the man only to find that he has disappeared entirely from the face of the planet.

There have been no witnesses, no look-alikes found in shady towns in the deserts, no spottings in mining communities, no accidental mix ups (“Say, you look like Tony Stark!”) in any lush forested regions. A man like Tony should not be able to hide. And yet he has.

And Steve wonders, he wonders if Tony has been taken by the council, if he sought them out, even though Steve warned against it. If they have him now, if they’re hurting him.

Or, worse.

If Tony has joined them.

Steve doesn’t know what to think. Because six months ago, he and Tony were friends. Or colleagues. Maybe ‘comrades’ sounds better. And then Tony was turned into a, not a monster, no, but was turned into _something else,_ something bigger, and Steve, well, Steve doesn’t know when, or maybe it was always there, but there is a churning in his gut, a weight in his chest, and he feels a tug to Tony like magnet, like he is something he’s missing. At night, Steve lies restless until sleep grabs him, unable to think with the need. He remembers how Tony went pliant as he trailed fingers over that spot, the Achilles heel on his belly, how he had moaned as he sucked, bit, and licked the drops of blood from Steve’s neck. He remembers the pleasure, fuck, that _pleasure,_ the feel of Tony’s lips on his skin, the way his knees weakened, how he tipped his head back in rapture and let Tony take.

He doesn’t know if this is natural. He doesn’t know if this isn’t the imprint. He can’t remember how he felt before, if there was ever a time he _didn’t_ love Tony, if there was always some kind of lust and need there, heavily veiled between sparring and cruel words. Now, he imagines taking Tony apart with love and sex and heat and Steve doesn’t care what came before as long as he can have his Tony.

His Tony. Hah. Oh God, he’s got it bad.

It’s been six month though. Six months, and Steve’s starting to think that Tony is never coming home.

 

* * *

Tony hunts.

He feels the give of the earth beneath his feet, the cold Alaskan air against his skin, he pounds hard against the ground and gives chase, the scent of stag trailing in the air, a blaring signal to his prey.

The wind snatches at his hair, it whips it hard, it’s long since Tony rarely bothers with such things such a personal hygiene anymore, shaggy and it is swept back by the speed with which he hunts. His goatee is gone, maybe because it was too Stark, maybe because he can’t be bothered to put in the time needed for it’s upkeep. He wears the kevlar pants he designed in his bunker during the day but he wears no shirt for now, why would he, who is here to see him?

It’s better, now. In the early days, the first days after he ran, he was an animal. He was disconsolate with loss and hunger and confusion. He got trapped, out in the sunlight and he couldn’t find the bunker so he burned, had to hide under a rock, starving, shaking, until the sun went down and he could begin to heal. He learnt from his mistakes.

Now, his days are spent preparing. He’s not entirely sure what for. There is no Jarvis to help him, he works alone, and he hasn’t seen a human in _months._ It gets lonely. Very lonely.

Tony has built weapons. Ultra-violet flares and guns that can shoot bullets through vampires and release a toxin into the body, usually milk or alcohol depending on what effect he’s going for. In the months he’s spent alone he’s had time to test the effect, been able to feel the way milk makes him sick to the stomach, leaves him retching for days, how alcohol burns in his gut and leaves him screaming in pain, how water feels like a solid weight moving down his chest, how it chokes him, how it makes his entire body feel like there is led in his veins, like he’s been carved from stone. 

He builds trip wires and alert systems even though he never sleeps. It won’t do to be snuck up on, he can’t have Gus steal in here while he’s working unawares. Even though it’s been six months, he won’t let himself be lulled. They could come at any moment.

He stockpiles blood, just in case. He can’t go hungry. He can’t. There is no worse pain, Tony decides, it’s worse than the water and the milk and the alcohol, there’s nothing worse than losing humanity like that, than the empty feeling in his gut that just hurts so bad. He promises himself that he will never, ever, let himself go hungry again. Ever.

He doesn’t wear the same armour, anymore. Iron Man has no place for a man with impermeable skin. Instead, he makes a kevlar suit, bullet proof, strong and durable, to protect against irritating scratches from trees and animals. It still hurts, obviously. He once got his hand caught a jagged rock, it went straight through, and although it later healed it still _hurt,_ it was still _agony._ He won’t let that happen again. Strong, supple boots with firm soles and a bullet proof vest. He makes a hood for the top, to protect from the sunlight, to stop the burning although it’s rarely used. 

Straps that fit on his arms, thighs, his weapons and spare blood. He never wants to be caught unawares, he’s always prepared, always ready. He designs sunglasses, black lenses that tighten round the back of his head and stop blindness in the sun. It’s winter now, and it is dark for most of the day, but he hopes that when summer roles back round he’ll be able to hunt in the morning, as well. That way, he’ll be able to catch the night time TV.

He builds a guard for his belly. If it’s the only place he can truly be killed then it needs protection. A solid, thin vibranium belt that wraps tightly around his waist, stops any bullet, any knife. He feels safer for it, and wears it under his clothes. Even now, as he hunts in only his pants, he wears it, just in case.

Tony learns that the cold night air feels better than the warm. He learns that, on a diet of one litre a night (animal blood) he can go the next twelve hours without hunger, an extra fifteen until desperation. He learns that he hunts better without shoes. That he prefers the cold air on his bare skin.

He learns to forget about what came before.

(That’s a lie.)

The bunker had everything he needed to build, to create, but it did not have people. Company. Tony is alone.

And he thinks the imprint it getting worse.

Tony assumed that life without his Imprint would maybe make it go away. Or at least loosen it’s hold on his mind.

Now, Tony realises he is trapped by it.

He can’t go a day without thinking of him. And that was before. Now, after all these months, he is nearly the only thing on his mind. 

He wonders what he’s doing at this moment, right now. He wonders if he misses him. He wonders what his favourite show is. He wonders if he likes his steak medium-rare. Everything that can be thought about, he does it. Sometimes, Tony will admit to constructing fantasises about him finding him here, about him smiling, asking where he’s been, he’s been looking for him, why did he need to go, is he hungry, here, have a bite.

He won’t let himself be taken in. Can’t.

But that is difficult. It’s getting more difficult. Because animal blood doesn’t taste so good anymore. Tony wants something more. It doesn’t quite hit the spot and the hunting doesn’t take the edge off, he needs another thing, something special.

And he knows that it’s the imprint, he wants.

Steve. He wants Steve.

He wants to sink his teeth into his flesh. He wants to watch him moan as he laps blood from his neck, chest, oh God, _thigh,_ he wants to feel those fingers in his hair, on his belly, wants to hold him in his arms and feel life and warmth and everything that Tony no longer has.

But honestly, even he is not that selfish.

He’s had to stop himself, before. He’s come so close to losing it, to running away, back to Steve, laying himself at his feet and begging him to take him back, to let him have a bit of the wonderful nectar running through his veins. And it was at that point he made a trip wire that evaluates his vitals, detects when he’s about to fly out, and injects him with water. Water, which makes him fall to the ground with a thud, not in agony, but makes him unable to move, weighs him down. A small quantity stops him from moving for at least three hours.

It’s happened more time than Tony cares to admit.

He’s started talking to himself.

So, now he hunts. He’s sprinting, and this is the only time he can really feel _alive_ anymore, and it’s so perfect, the way he runs and feels all the _life_ around him, the wind, the leaves, the wet soil. It’s snowing, thick, freezing, ice underneath his feet and it feels good. 

He banks left, sharp, leaps over a ditch and narrowly avoids tripping over a log that lies in the way. This area is rugged, rural, there is no civilisation here. Nobody will be able to see his tracks in the snow.

His prey is soft beneath his hands, firm beneath his jaw and hot inside his throat. He moans at the taste, it never stops being the most amazing thing, and he drinks every bit down, every last drop. 

Except it doesn’t satisfy on it’s way down.

Maybe another, then. Tony picks up where he left off, finds the trail of something bigger, something slower, eyes black, breathing ragged, pulse heavy, lunge, suck, feed and.

And. Not enough.

No.

Again. Again. Again. It’s not enough. Christ, it’s not _enough._ For the past six months, one litre a night has been enough to sustain him, to _fill_ him, but now he can just eat and eat and there’s no bloated satisfaction, he doesn’t feel drowsy, pliable, he feels like he wants _more._

Tony scrabbles back on his ass, presses his bare back against a tree. There is dirt under his nails, he’s sweating, and snow falls loosely on his body. His hands fist into the bark above his head and he squeezes his eyes tight, focuses on his breathing, does anything, tries to remember what’s happening, can’t figure out what’s going wrong.

And then Gus drops down from the tree above his head. Of course.

“I think,” he says lazily “that you have moped enough, hmm?”

He’s wearing another suit. It’s laughable, really, that Gus would wear a suit out here, in the mud and the snow, but as usual he’s impeccably put together, all silk lines and cotton, crisp pressed shirts.

It makes Tony feel dirty. Which he is.

“You,” he growls “you, what have you done to me?” Tony stands in front of his tree, braced, ready for a fight, fear pooling in his gut, anxiety ratcheting and adrenaline, or whatever he has as a substitute, flowing through his veins.

“You mean, apart from the obvious?” Gus smirks, pushes his hands into his pockets. Tony just stares at him stonily and he relents. “Oh, calm down, darling. It was bound to happen eventually. Relax. There’s only so _long_ you can actually spend on animal blood, sweetie, and you’ve used up your nine lives.”

Fuck.

“You’re lusting after that sweet little imprint back home, aren’t you? You know, there’s an easy way to fix that. Change him.” He says, easy tone turning dark “Change him, and don’t look back. You’ll feel better for it, trust me.”

“Right,” Tony says, bracing himself “because you’ve given me such occasion to trust you.”

Gus sighs “Don’t be such a problem child, Tony. Listen to daddy, he knows best.”

For a moment, Tony grimaces. “Really?” He says “Christ, do you hear yourself?”

Gus smiles. “Your family is worried, Tony,” and for a strange, surreal moment Tony is sure he means Dad and Mom, Howard and Maria “we’re _all_ worried. Mother wants to see you. It really is rude to put her off any longer.” And he takes a step forward so Tony steps back, presses himself against the tree.

“Why now?” He spits “You’ve had six months—”

“Best to let it get out of your system.” Gus shrugs “We’ve let you have your depressive funk, Tony. It’s time to cash in.”

Tony shakes his head “You bastard. I didn’t ask for this,” he growls “I never wanted this.”

For a moment, Gus pauses. And then he shakes his head. 

“I know,” he says, and his piercing, ethereal eyes meet Tony’s golden ones “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ll explain properly, one day. But now you really need to come with me.”

“No.” Tony says “No.”

But his interest is piqued. Gus _apologised,_ he _knows_ he fucked up.

“I can beat you, Tony. You won’t be able to fight me off.” And he drags a syringe from his pocket “Let me send you to sleep. When you wake up, we’ll be home.”

Tony tries to back in to the tree even as Gus advances. He twists, moves backwards _fast,_ but then he trips over a log, _fuck,_ and he’s disorientated for just a moment, scrabbling backwards, snow and leaves breaking under his fingers.

Gus is on him in a second. He straddles his waist, pushes his head into the ground and he’s right, he _is_ stronger, Tony can’t beat him, it’s surreal. He brings up an arm to punch but it’s caught and smoothly lowered to the ground, both hands brought up to his torso and sat on.

“Stop struggling,” Gus says irritably “you always make things so _difficult._ ”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Gus rolls his eyes “God, you big baby.”

And he uncaps the syringe with his mouth, pushes Tony’s head into the snow. “Hold still,” he mumbles around the cap and then presses the needle into the pulse on Tony’s neck. And the effect is instantaneous.

Tony has not felt tired in six months but now he feels his eyes grow heavy. He blinks up into the dark sky, and the snows falls down around him. It tickles his face. 

The creeping effects of exhaustion are familiar to him even now.

“Whazzat’?” He slurs as Gus stands. He can’t run, now. Can’t fight back. Whatever he injected in him is taking him away.

Gus smiles down at him, but he’s blurring, there’s two of him, not one, and he lifts Tony into his arms, cups him against his suit, dirt and all.

“Coffee,” he murmurs, and Tony feels the vibrations in his chest pressed against his ear before he goes to sleep.

 

* * *

And when he wakes up, it is warm.

Fuck, oh fuck, he let himself get caught. 

Tony gently raises his head from the soft, plush he’d been placed on. In this room there are no windows, but there is a fire in the grate. It’s all heavy reds and gold, opulence, luxury. His weapons are gone, his blood is gone, but he is lying in furs on an oak four-poster bed. A bed. Why would vampires need beds.

Oh.

Someone has cleaned him, too. His hair is soft on a pillow, his nails are perfectly shaped. There is no dirt, no blood, on his body. In fact, there is nothing on his body. As he slowly drifts back into consciousness he becomes aware that he is naked, and lying in a bed. His pants are gone, someone has _washed him_ and dumped in this bed with it’s furs, and silks, and pillows and—

Maybe it’s the effect of the drug, or maybe it’s because Tony’s gone too long without luxury, but he turns over, rolls onto his back and sighs, feels the furs on his fingertips, strokes it gently.

It occurs to him that he’s stoned out of his mind.

“It’s clever,” Gus says, from somewhere “you’re protecting your weakest spot. That’s… that’s good.”

Tony stirs at his voice but doesn’t quite get up. He blinks drowsily at the canopy above him, turns his head to search for the source of the voice.

Gus sits in a chair, cigarette in mouth, his fingers playing with the belt Tony designed. He traces it with his nails, clinks them against the metal surface, tests it for give.

“Good,” he says around the cigarette “this is good.”

He’s changed suits. Now, he wears a dark blue thing with stripes running parallel, a crisp black shirt underneath. It bothers Tony vaguely that he gets clothes.

Tony makes a small noise on the bed, drags up his hands and presses upwards, sits up in the bed. The silk and furs slide from his torso and he frowns, confused, unsure. He closes his eyes, tries to make one plus one make two in his head but everything is very slow.

Gus puts the guard aside and sits on the bed, presses him down into the sheets.

“Shh,” he says “sleep. You’re not quite ready to wake up yet.”

Tony lets his head fall onto the pillows, his eyelids fluttering. What? He doesn’t quite understand but he knows he needs to leave although he can’t remember why.

He shifts on the bed, rolls onto his belly, hooks the fur under his arms and rubs his cheek into the silk of the pillow. It’s nice. This is nice.

Gus is trailing shapes down his back, over his shoulder blades. He plays with the back of his neck, hums, and then into his hair, and it’s all to easy to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

The next time Tony wakes up there is someone else. She is tall, slender, and her hair hangs in red waves, down, down, down. It’s very pretty. She is very pretty. But there is something cold in her amber eyes, something not right.

“Sleep,” she orders, red lips forming words from a porcelain face “they’re not ready for you yet.” And she brings a syringe to his neck, presses gently, and Tony makes a small noise at the back of his throat but goes back under anyway.

 

* * *

Someone has cut his hair. He realises that as he sits up in the bed and it no longer tickles his forehead, stands no longer playing with the tips of his ears. It’s a neat, sure, cut. Firm, he feels as he brings up his hand, perfectly sculpted. No a hair out of place. Someone has even run product through the hairs at the top, artfully ruffled them over his head. Probably Gus.

There are clothes on the chair a few feet from the bed. His guard is still there, too. Tony assumes he can take this as a sign that the council do not mean to kill him just yet. Gently, he throws back the furs and presses his feet onto the soft carpet. They stand firm, though, and he pads over, first tightening the guard around his belly, then looking at the clothes.

A white button down, no tie, black suit. Socks, underwear, shoes. It’s basic, but obviously expensive. Tony would know. He can tell a cheap suit from an expensive one.

He dresses slowly, savours the feel of the material over his fingers. It’s soft, and Tony has been running in only pants for too long.

There’s a mirror in the wardrobe across the room and Tony throws it open, inspects himself. He hasn’t seen his own reflection in six months.

He almost forgot.

He’s tall, strong. Tony can see his muscles underneath the suit, can see the definition. His hair is soft, thrown back in an artful mess, his face clean shaven. His eyes are gold. For now, there is no hint of black.

But he is hungry.

He wonders if they fed him at all. He wonders how long he’s been here.

He thinks they might of done it on purpose.

“Anthony,” and the voice is smooth, like silk, it curls over Tony’s spine, goes straight to his brain and makes him stall, sink.

He turns, and there she is, the woman with the hair, the really fucking long ass hair, that’s completely impractical but completely mesmerising, and Tony can’t stop looking at how it moves in unison, every strand perfectly coiffed, as mass that hangs over porcelain shoulders and arms.

He breaks his attention enough to see that she wears a dress, simple, black, elegant, a bateau collar, it clinches over curves, down to knees, where legs run down to sharp shoes, stilettos, red, red, red.

They are clothes for someone who is not going to fight. Clothes for an ambassador, clothes for a woman who fights with words.

She walks carefully, smiles, but her eyes are cold, her eyes are steel, and Tony does not like her.

“Cousin,” she says, bending to kiss each cheek “you look well.”

Tony does not pull away, simply tracks her carefully as she moves to the chair, takes a seat, carefully crosses her long, perfect legs. 

“Your name?” Tony asks with a hint of a raised eyebrow, a touch of insolence easily masked by years of deportment.

She smiles, smooths her skirt. “Diana.”

His lips quirk. “Fitting.”

She laughs softly, a pretty noise coming from her pretty mouth, and Tony hates it. She is cruel. Tony can see that from the glint in her eyes, the way she looks at Tony as if to judge. 

She scrapes her hair over one shoulder, leans back in chair. “Come,” she says “let’s talk.”

She has an American accent, she speaks in perfect colloquialisms. It doesn’t sound forced, like Gus.

Tony sits in the chair opposite, does not look away. But she does. Diana rakes her amber irises over his body, from his face to his feet, shifts minutely in her seat. The next time she smiles, it’s feral.

“The suit is a nice cut on you,” she says.

Tony shrugs “Whoever chose it had good taste.”

She laughs, high, cold and nods. “Thank you.”

Tony senses something in the air. Seduction. 

What exactly is she playing at?

“Can I ask,” he says “what exactly you want from me?”

She looks affronted. “From you? Why, nothing, Anthony. I’m the welcoming committee. Here to make sure you’re every need is… fulfilled.” A sentence laden with opportunities that Tony does not want.

“Where’s Gus?” He asks and her lovely face turns almost unknowingly into a sneer.

“That fool. Talking to his mother,” and her tone is reverential, obviously mother is an important figure “about _you._ ” She sighs “We have to apologise, and let me be the first to say, that Gus is a first class idiot. He was _supposed_ to get your consent before he changed you, but naturally he couldn’t wait to get his grubby little paws all over you.”

Tony’s raises an eyebrow, looks a little disgusted. “Thanks,” he says in a voice that says ‘fuck you.”

“Mother gave him the job,” she sighs “gave him one last chance to prove himself. And he didn’t. I would imagine he wanted to be the one to get it done properly, but really,” she snorts lights “it should have been me.”

She does not like Gus. She hates Gus. Her and Gus are at war with one another. Fighting for approval from _Mother._ The woman who is thousands of years old. Who sits at the head of the council. The woman who has changed only one child, and that’s Gus. _A power struggle,_ Tony’s mind supplies, because after a queen abdicates who gets the throne?

Gus, apparently, is a poor choice. So naturally, she would look elsewhere. To this woman, Diana. Obviously influential, important. Obviously intelligent. 

Except not enough to be given the throne outright. What more could Mother be looking for?

They both wanted to have the honour of changing him, for whatever reason.

“Why,” he says, after a moments consideration “do you _want_ me?”

She sighs, drags her hair over one shoulder. “It’s not your fault, really,” she says, eyes roaming “when one of us dies, another needs to take their place. We keep numbers at a level. There will never be more than one thousand of us. No more. Ever.” She straightens, purrs “We choose only the best for the higher ranks. A council man died and it was necessary for someone to take her place.” She grins, cruel “That will be me, obviously. But someone should be there to fill the space I leave.”

Tony glares “And that is going to be me.” He says flatly.

“Yes,” she chirps “we choose only the best. High blood. Although, you _are_ supposed to be consenting.” She eyes him up, bites her lip. “I could have convinced you,” she murmurs.

Tony barks a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

She looks at him then, cold, cruel, empty and dangerous. “Don’t get on my bad side, Anthony. I am _trying_ to befriend you. You are going to _need me_ out here, understand? It’s deadly. Cutthroat. Vampires die all the time for the sake of ambition,” and she grins so that Tony knows she was the one who murdered the council member “I can make life very difficult for you. And your imprint.”

He looks up sharply and she laughs, stands and moves to Tony’s lap, straddles him as if he was nothing but furniture. Tony leans back instinctively, tilts back his head, holds his breath. Intimidation he can deal with. Threats on Steve’s life? No.

“An Avenger,” Tony says, not backing down “you really think you can kill one of us?”

She tilts her head and her hair falls in loose splay onto Tony’s lap. “Yes,” she purrs “easy peasy.”

She leans in close and mouths at Tony’s jaw. It does nothing for him. Once upon a time, this would have made him hard, achingly so, but now all he feels is a vague irritation at her ministrations.

Her hands come to tug at his buttons, and he lets her, because two can play at this game. She underestimates him. This is a woman who always gets what she wants. So he’ll let her. And then, when she’s not looking, he’ll pull the ground out from under her cruel heels.

She trails fingers down to his belly, taps on the metal guard, and breathes into his ear. “This is clever,” she whispers, breathless “this is good.”

He kisses her then, as if he cares, or as if wants her, and they’re both playing this game of manipulation, both waiting to see who will cave first. Tongues pressing for dominance, hands groping, hips shifting. But it is lifeless. Like moves on a dance floor between two expert partners.

“Ahem.”

Diana breaks away, rolls her eyes and licks a swollen lip. Then she forces a too-bright smile, spins and stands. “Gus,” she says, voice tight “lovely. What a lovely surprise.”

Gus raises an eyebrow and Tony just continues to stare dispassionately.

“Having fun, darling?”

Diana smiles, and from this view Tony see’s that her dress has no back. She waltzes close, presses herself against Gus’s body, breathes into his ear. Chuckles, hums, and then:

“Go fuck yourself,” she whispers. 

Her heels click when she opens the door, steps onto the chess tiled marble outside.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Gus says brightly “I mean, you can’t choose family.” 

Tony looks at him.

“I mean, we can, obviously. But I didn’t choose her.”

Tony nods, understanding.

Gus sighs “Silent treatment?”

Tony shrugs. “No, not really. I’m just a bit confused.”

“And why is that?” Gus asks as Tony stands, buttons his shirt over the blue of the reactor.

“Because I should hate you. And I don’t.” He says, crossing his arms “You don’t seem cruel. You just seem like… God, you’re just thick, aren’t you?”

Gus looks vaguely affronted for a split second and then shrugs, concedes. “Yes,” he says “a little bit.”

Tony smiles, nods. “Fine. Okay. In which case, hi,” and he holds out his hand “I’m Tony Stark.”

Gus grins, elegant, poised, and shakes “Augustus.”

Tony has not forgiven him. Not yet. He’ll see how sorry Gus really is soon enough, whether he’ll help him or not. 

He tilts his chin, gestures out the door. “Who is she.”

Gus’ face darkens. “Don’t, Tony. She is dangerous.”

“Well, yeah. I get that,” he says, straightening his collar “she said that pretty clearly. I want to know why she hates _you_ so much.”

Gus’ eyes flick up and then down. He sighs. “Competition. Always. I am the Mother’s son, her first and only born. By right, when she abdicates on the summer solstice, I should be taking her place.”

“But?”

He smiles wryly “But I’m a bit thick. And… untraditional. Mother loves me, but she would rather put someone who sticks to the true ways.”

“And Diana does?”

“Diana is sadist.” Gus says firmly. “She gets pleasure from hurting our food. She uses humans like a canvas. She’s going to show you, later,” he adds “and I suggest you grin and bear it.”

And she had threatened Steve. Tony swallows

“She hates me, because I have what she wants. And then, Mother gave your case to _me,_ and, well,” he grimaces “that didn’t go well.”

“Did she kill that council member?”

Gus sighs “Most definitely. She will take her place. And Diana with a place on the council is… disastrous.”

Tony’s head snaps up, and then he lunges, and then he’s screaming “WHY DID YOU CHANGE ME?” It’s terrifying, and he doesn’t know where it comes from and he tugs on Gus’ lapels, slams him into the wall again, and again and then punches him once, twice, three times, until Gus gets himself together and presses him down, battles him to the ground, arms pressed by his head, trapped in Gus’ and snarling, spitting, trying to rise up, get at him, kill him, how dare he, how dare he, this stupid fuck has _destroyed him,_ he is going to destroy _him._

_“Tony,”_ Gus hisses “control yourself—”

Tony screams and slams his head against the carpet again and again, rolls his head and tries to bite at Gus’ arms “Go to hell,” he says “go to hell.”

Gus holds him down, won’t budge, he’s like a solid wall that Tony cannot move and slowly, eventually, he comes back to himself, panting.

He closes his eyes, goes lax on the floor.

“There we go,” Gus says “all better?”

Tony huffs. “Fuck you.”

Gus lets up, holds out a hand, and Tony takes it. He’s peering into his eyes, nodding. “You’re hungry.” He says.

Tony swallows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm especially looking for info on how you think the OC's are working. Any other comments are greatly appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was on a roll and figured why not upload? It might be a while till the next one, though.

The corridors in this place at sprawling, all oak walls and marbles floors. There are no windows, no sunlight is allowed, but there are some delightful paintings on the walls that would make Pepper squeal with happiness.

“This way,” Gus leads him through the maze, always one step ahead, body tense.

He’s nervous. He is scared. Tony can read it in the lines of his shoulders, the weight of his step. He fucked up, Gus _knows_ he fucked up, he changed Tony without _asking_ Tony and now he’s going to pay.

Tony makes a judgement. Gus is dangerous. He can be violent. He is beautiful. But he is desperate for approval. Tony sees it in the way he smiles when Tony looks at him, how he tried too hard to gain his mother’s approval. It doesn’t seem like a power play, not from Gus. Gus, he realises, is misjudged. He is not evil, not by any standards.

Not when you consider Diana.

Tony almost feels sorry for him. He definitely feels some sort of strange empathy. He knows that, if he as any friend here, it will be Gus.

“What do they want from me?” He murmurs as he and Gus turn a corner.

“Promises. Answers.” And then he pauses “If,” he says, “if you so choose, they will let you go.”

Tony stops. “What.”

Gus swallows. “If you want to leave, they will not stop you. I changed you unwillingly, therefore you are under no obligation to follow our laws.”

“What’s the catch?”

Gus looks from side to side. Checks. And then he takes Tony by the elbow, drags him to an alcove, leans in close.

“I don’t know yet,” he murmurs “too many, too many options. Mother, maybe. Maybe she would just let you go. But I don’t see the other council members buying it.”

“Diana?”

Gus snorts “Never. If you leave, she’ll hunt you down and skin you alive,” he shudders “I’m not joking.”

Tony frowns, shakes his head, hisses “ _why?”_

“Because you’re on her bad side, now. You’re her _enemy._ Because you are with me. Because you should have been hers. Because you imprinted on Captain America. You’re a testament to her failure. She will want you, wholly, no distractions.”

“So she won’t let me just walk out of here, I take it?”

“Maybe she will,” Gus shrugs “and then she’ll set someone else on you, someone to do her dirty work for her.”

Tony swallows. And then leans closer. “What about Steve?” He murmurs.

Gus looks away. “I’ve told you,” he says “and told you. And you’re not _listening_ to me. You _need_ to change him, I’m not making this up, Tony.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, I’m not, _are you out of your mind?”_ He hisses “I can’t just change _Captain America_ into a _vampire,_ are you fucking _crazy?_ ”

“Life’s not fair,” Gus snaps “get used to it. Explain that to him, too, while you’re at it.”

Tony looks away. He can’t — Christ, he can’t inflict himself upon Steve, he can’t do this to him.

Briefly, Tony remembers his first month in the wild, how he had been crazed, nearly an animal, wrecked with the loss of a man he barely knew. Pushes it away.

“No. We can fight. We’ve taken on worse than Diana.”

Gus gently leads him by the elbow back into the corridor. “From now on,” he says quietly “be careful what you say. We’re being watched at all times.”

 

* * *

The council adjourns.

A heavy set oak table raised above the main floor where Gus and Tony stand on a marble floor. Thirteen impassive faces, some old, some young, all beautiful.

It’s been a long time since Tony’s been intimidated.

The woman in the centre, the youngest of all. Dark skin, tanned, black hair and black suit. She sits on a throne. Her eyes are grey. Not plain grey, but luminescent. They shine through the comfortable gloom, the pierce, and Tony refuses to balk.

“Son,” she says, and Tony realises she’s talking to him “on behalf of the council I welcome you.”

It’s a nice accent. Lilting. He can’t place it, after so many years it has changed form, but he decides that it’s vaguely Mediterranean. He nods respectfully and she smiles, considering, tilts her head in return.

“And you,” she says coldly, eye roving toward her first-born son “what exactly were you thinking.”

Gus swallows. “So I can explain—”

“I don’t think you can.”

Gus’ eyes slide shut. He doesn’t bother saying anything else.

“I must apologise profusely,” Mother says “for my sons actions. I understand that this… this can be a heavy burden to bear.”

Tony can’t think of anything witty, or cutting, or clever, so he just says “Yeah.”

Mother nods as if he has said something very wise. “I wonder, now, if you would reconsider? Join the fold? Life would be easier for you, Anthony. You would grow with those who do not age. You would not get lonely.”

It’s almost like she _knows._

“I—” he almost stumbles, but recovers himself “I can’t. Surely,” he shakes his head “you must know that? Right? I have, I have a _life_ outside of here.”

“Then why have you spent the last six months living like an animal?” It’s not said cruelly, simply a question, and Tony shakes his head.

“I fucked up.” He says “I fucked up, and I had to get away.”

“So you were going to go back?”

Should he lie? She would probably be able to tell. In the end, he doesn’t have to.

“Yes,” he says “eventually, I would of gone home. I don’t think I could have stopped myself.”

There are murmurs across the table and Tony is suddenly struck by the resemblance to one of his board meetings.

“Your imprint,” Mother declares, almost sadly “he would have brought you home.”

Tony nods.

She licks her lips, looks away. “You understand,” she starts, carefully “that we cannot allow a human to be part of our order? To know our ways? That we cannot,” she enunciates the word “allow you continue your bond while he is still human.”

Tony understands.

“I can’t.” He says simply “I can’t change him. He is… he’s too important. We all are,” he says, almost regretfully “the world is going to need me, and there is still so much… still so much I need to do.”

Mother smiles “Of course, and now you have eternity in which to do it. We will not stop you. We only ask that you bring your lover into the fold.”

“He’s not my lover.” Tony blurts “We’re not— it’s not like that?” He frowns “I didn’t… we didn’t even like each other. Why… why have I imprinted?”

Mother sighs, swirls the blood in a goblet in her hand. “He was your first blood. Such is the way with humans. A vampire will sometimes imprint on his first blood. It’s rare, but it happens. It is easily solved. You will change him.”

Tony shakes his head “I won’t”

“You will.”

“I _can’t.”_

More murmurs. Mother sits in her chair, regal, poised, waiting.

“In which case, I will have to ask you to break off your arrangement with him.”

Is that it? Yes, _yes,_ he _wants_ that, he, Christ, spare both of them the pain, of course he wants that. His brow furrows, he shakes his head.

“I thought… I thought they were permanent?” He says carefully.

Gus shakes his head beside him.

“They are,” Mother says, sanctimoniously “the only way to break one is death.”

“No.”

“ — Your's or his, it does not matter. We urge you now to reconsider our offer, Anthony. Change your Captain. Bring him here. You both will be welcomed with open arms.”

“I didn’t want this,” Tony says, vehemence in his voice “I didn’t want this.”

Mother’s eyes trail to Gus. “I know,” she says sadly “truly, you have my most humble apologies.”

“I need to eat.” He says “I haven’t— let me eat. And then, maybe when I’m in a better mind I can… reconsider.”

Mother nods, please “Of course,” she says “of course, how inconsiderate of us. Diana,” she calls, and a figure steps out from the shadows at the edge of the room, smiling gently, cruel, Tony hates her, hates her, and he can’t work out why.

She glides closer. “Come with me,” she says softly, one hand reaching to tug through his hair “you must be hungry.”

And he really is. He really, really, is. He looks for Gus, searches for him almost desperately, but he will not meet his eye. Gus had warned him, though. He had told him that she was going to show him her canvases, and that he has to grin, and bear it. Get on her good side.

For Steve.

He lets her draw him in, one hand fisting in his collar. She’s close, too close, their noses are millimetres apart and he can feel her breath on his face.

Blood. She smells like blood.

It smells so good.

She tugs once, then lets go and he follows without complaint. He is hungry, Christ, he is so hungry. He imagines Steve, he imagines having Steve beneath him and lapping blood from his neck and he almost-shivers as he walk down the maze of corridors.

“I think you’ll enjoy this, Anthony,” Diana hums, hips swaying “it’s my own personal project. Art. True art.” She laughs, high and callous, and pushes the double doors to her chambers, they swing open, and, oh God the _scent,_ the _scent_ of all that blood, it drives him nearly insane, but he reigns it in, reigns it in because he can’t balk now, can’t.

The room is all heavy reds and dark greys, oak furniture, fire in the grate, this whole place is modelled in the same way, like a castle, and Tony wonders where they are, how people miss a place like this.

He stands by the fireplace, inspects the painting at the top. It’s Diana, obviously, but there’s more than one person in the picture. Her, next to an imposing man, tall, with dark brown hair and heavy-set eyes. His is handsome, but the set of his mouth is cruel, his eyes cold.

They deserve each other, Tony decides.

Diana kicks off her heels, pads on the ground. Like this, she is Tony’s height, and he suspects she wears the heels in order to tower over the rest of them. She drags her hair over one shoulder, unclips an earring, then repeats.

“Do my neck,” she says, and she turns, pulls her hair aside and indicates to the pearl choker set around, hooked at the back.

Tony complies.

In the room, the scent of blood is heady. The fire crackles in the grate. The pearls roll off of her skin.

He lets them drop to the floor.

He has no interest in watching her take off the rest of her clothes. He is tired of her games. He wants to eat. If she has sense, she will feed him sooner, rather than later, because he cannot be responsible for what he does when he is hungry.

“Here,” she says, pouring wine into a goblet “drink.”

Except it is not wine.

He grasps it greedily and tilts it to his lips, takes it down his throat. It’s thick and smooth and goes some way to quenching his thirst, it’s completely unlike the coarse animal blood, it’s all human and Tony barely has time to think before he lets the goblet fall to the floor with a thunk.

“More,” he gasps “I need more.” He feels a twinge, his eyes, feels them fill in in with black, dark ink enveloping his irises, his pupil. He walks, stumbles forward, grasps her shoulders tight under firm palms. “More,” he hisses.

“There there, it’s okay, I forgot it was going to take you so hard,” she says soothingly, smile playing on her lips “sit, there we go, you wait there and let me pour you some more.”

Tony’s lips twitch. “More,” he repeats.

She sighs a tilts another blood-filled goblet to his lips. He downs it all, moans into the cup, he’s so hungry, and it’s been so long since he’s had _good_ blood, proper blood, not animal, which is thready and weak and disgusting, but smooth human blood which is thick and good and he needs more, more, more.

“It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it? You’ve been drinking that awful animal stuff. Here, follow me.” And she moves off so Tony follows, the promise of more food tugging him along. Had he been in his right mind, he would have protested, or left, or done anything, but he wasn’t, he was _hungry,_ and he needed to _eat._

She slides back a panel in the wall and leads Tony into a sparse chamber, marble floor, oak walls, and a table in the centre. Chains. Leather straps. A gurney.

To the side,there is a box and on top are knives. Big knives, small knives, knives for precision, knives to kill.

Tony recoils, because there is a woman on the table.

She lies face down, although obviously alive, ankles and wrists strapped to the table. Diana has been carving. Her back is a mass of spirals, beautiful designs, carved in blood. She is in pain. She groans on the slab.

A hand on the back of his neck, breath in his ear.

“Tony,” Diana chides “Tony, don’t worry. Eat. I’ve finished with this one, you can take the rest.”

Tony’s squeezes his eyes shut tight. Bites his lips, presses his head to the side, tries to breathe through the smell. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he can’t remember why. There is a living, breathing, human right there, ripe for the picking, and there’s _blood,_ oh God, it smells so _good._

He takes a step forward, can’t hold himself back. A slab of meat, laid out for him to take, and it’s _fresh,_ he hasn’t had fresh meat in so long, one bite, surely, no one would mind if he took just a little bite.

He hovers over her back, crouched, eyes ink and teeth bared, and he’s so close.

“Mr Stark,” it croaks “Mr Stark, please.”

His hands fist in his hair and he reels as if struck, stumbling back, back, to crash into the wall. He slides down, head in his hands, shakes, is he insane? Is he out of his mind? What was he _doing,_ oh God, what was he _thinking,_ there’s a _person,_ they’ve been _tortured,_ oh hell, what is wrong with him, he’s a monster, a fucking _monster._

“You piece of shit,” he snarls, standing, glaring at Diana “let her go.”

Diana rolls her eyes, drags a finger down the bloodied back, sucks. “Don’t be such a baby. You are hungry. Eat.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a sadist.”

“I enjoy playing with my food,” she snaps “is that such a crime? Humans are _beneath_ us, we’re _predators._ ”

Tony sneers. “You were human once.”

She slaps him, then. Spits. “No,” she says “I am a _vampire._ I am greater than them. Than you. Understand that, now.” She draws herself up, snarls, feral, furious and glorious. “You would have no qualms with killing an insect so why must you be so difficult now?"

“I don’t torture insects.”

She raises her head, exhales, air brushing past her lips, soothing. “No,” she says “but insects are insignificant. In death, you release them. How is that any different from a human? Insignificant in life, greater in death. They feed us, Anthony. The higher beings. I have saved this one for a worthy cause.”

Tony moves. He slides out, shaking his head, back into the main chamber, pours himself some blood from the decanter into his goblet. Shakes, but downs it all. And then another. And then another. And then another.

Soon enough, he is full at the decanter is empty.

“You cling,” she says “still you cling to the vestiges of humanity.” And her voice is soft, calming. He realises this is her, giving him genuine advice, she believes what she is saying. “Don’t.” She counsels “Life will not be easy for you, and there is a lot of it left to live. Make it easy for yourself.”

Tony exhales sharply, meets her eyes. “What is it about me exactly,” he counters “that makes you think I like to make life easy for myself.”

The air hangs between them. It’s a battle, who will look away first, who will give in, back down, submit. One, two, three, second, more, five, ten, they stare, tense, waiting for the other to strike.

“Darlings,” a voice drawls from the doorway “please don’t fight.”

Diana’s eyes slide to the door and she sneers “I though you were being punished?”

Gus smiles sweetly. “Prince’s privilege,” he giggles “you should hurry back, dearest.” He steps into the room “Mother wants a word.”

She rolls her head on her neck, strides out of the doorway, smug, domineering, in control. Gus watches her go with a look of impassiveness and a raised eyebrow. He waits until he hears her disappear down the hallway.

“Mother doesn’t want her.” He says, inspecting the empty decanter “I just want you.”

“Re-phrase.” Tony says.

“I mean, I want to _talk_ with you. I’m not — can I clear something up? I’m not after you like that. Although,” his eyebrows dance on his face “I realise it might be interpreted in that way.”

Tony snorts “Fucking me was a bit of a misleader.”

Gus sighs “I’m sorry. I truly, fuck, it doesn’t matter how many times I apologise really, does it?” 

Tony shakes his head “Not really, no. You’re still an ass.”

He smiles, wryly. “You don’t really think that.”

“No,” Tony says, levelly “I think you’re to clever for your own good. And I think your playing at something else, something that goes against what the council wants. What Diana wants.”

“This is true,” Gus says “you’re intuitive, I like that, brother.” And then he exhales “I’m the liberal of the family. The young revolutionary. I was the baby, before you arrived.” He inspects his nails, sighs.

Gus just wants to prove himself. He is clever, and strong, but he has a weakness. He loves attention. Approval. Tony gets that. He can understand that.

He’s more like Gus than he first realised.

“There’s a woman,” he says “in there.” And he voice shakes because he doesn’t think he can go back “Diana… she’s being tortured, what—”

“Leave her,” Gus says softly “I’m sorry, Ant, you need to leave her.”

Tony shakes his head. “Tell me you don’t condone that.”

“I don’t,” he says gently “but Diana isn’t like me. The others are not like me. Mother and I are different, me, even more so. But the others will not like you playing with someone else's food.”

“But you have to eat,” Tony demands “how do _you_ eat?”

“A bit, here and there. I spend my nights out, take someone new back to my hotel, take a little drop and it’s so pleasurable they don’t notice quite what’s happening. On a diet of human blood, Ant, you don’t need that much. With animal blood it was, what, a litre a night? With human we’re talking, what, 500ml? It’s about 10% of the blood in human. They don’t even notice when it’s gone, I think they take the same about for blood donation as well.”

Tony nods. That is… okay. Okay, he can deal with that. Assuming he gets his fix every night.

“If…” he swallows “so I mean, you couldn’t take blood from the same person every night?”

Gus makes a face “Not… no, not really. It doesn’t recover fast enough. If, however,” and he smiles “if you had someone with regenerative capabilities, like, I don’t know, a super soldier serum, then yes, actually. Which is, would you look at that, what a coincidence—”

Tony pushes Gus into the wall, hard, presses against him, snarls, “Are you saying I could have Steve every night? Could I have Steve every night?” And there’s a desperation there, hanging on his lips, a ferocity that can’t quite be dampened.

“Every night,” Gus smiles, disentangling himself from Tony’s grasp “no worries.”

Tony falls back. Oh, oh, he could have Steve _every night,_ he could have his blood down his throat, his neck on his lips, his skin beneath him, hot, and _alive,_ fuck, he needs him so bad, _now._

“I can’t—” he shakes his head “I need him, _now,_ I can’t wait anymore.” He stumbles back into a chair “I waited all those months, I waited for the cravings to fade, for it to go away,” he squeeze his eyes shut, runs hands through his hair “I was _insane,_ Gus. I was, Christ, the things I did, that first month, I was deranged—”

“I know,” Gus says quietly “I watched you.”

Tony breathes, in and out. Calms himself. 

“I want his blood. His blood, only his. Why.”

“The imprint,” Gus hums “it’s unusual, because really vampires should only hook themselves onto other vampires, but, in the event that we do bond with a human, we thirst for their blood.” He smiles wryly “In most cases, it’s catch 22, because you can’t really feed from a regular human every night without killing them. Eventually you would change them and the need would diminish.”

“But I can.”

“You can.” He agrees “But… Ant, brother. I’m sorry, but imprints work both ways.”

Tony falters “Both… both ways.”

“The Captain will be just as in love with you as you are him.”

“Not possible.” He snaps. Not possible, not, God, he’s fucked Steve up too, but at the same time…

“Hear me out,” he soothes “listen. If you don’t change him, then he will age. And he will grow old. And he will die. And Tony, understand when I tell you that there is not pain quite like losing your imprint. Nothing.”

Tony quietens. “Did you?” He murmurs “Did you lose them?”

“No,” Gus says, standing “but she can’t live here. She’s alternative, one of the lower ranks. She was changed by a rogue in a night out in Seattle and prefers to continue with her studies, for the time being.”

Tony smiles gently “That’s nice.”

Gus nods “It is. When she is finished, I will go to her.”

Tony frowns. “What about this?” He waves his hands around the room “All of this, I thought you were, what, an _heir—”_

 “I have no interest in power. I would rather spend my infinite life sleeping around, eating, visiting my beloved. With so much time on my hands and so much money, why would I want power? It’s a far cry from my life before.”

“So why are you here?” Tony says “Why don’t you leave?”

Gus snorts “Because have you _met_ Diana? She’s a monster. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than let all this fall to her.”

Tony shakes his head “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll help you,” Gus says “because I am guilty. I’ll help you find what you need. And then we will go our separates ways.”

Tony frowns. Stands. “What do I _need?”_ He says, quietly, carefully.

“A cure.” Mother says from the doorway.

 

* * *

It is dark, and it is raining. 

Steve likes to watch the rain fall against the windows in the tower. This high up it’s strange to see but no less beautiful. It catches in the lights from the restless city below.

But it is quiet, up here. It’s always so quiet.

It’s easy to fall asleep that night. The sound of rain, filtered through by Jarvis. The peace. Steve almost feels a sense of burgeoning, as if in the morning, everything will be well.

He dreams sweet dreams.

And when he turns, some hours later, eyes opening briefly, ready to fall back under, he see’s two spheres of luminescent gold staring back.

“Hey, Steve.” Tony says with a feral grin “we need to go.”

Steve blinks.

“Now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are literally my life's blood, especially on the OC's and plot so far!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Steve play chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments are much loved!

The car park under the tower is cold, dark. Orange lights cast shadows on the concrete walls as Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, not for the first time, argue.

“You can’t just _do that,_ Tony you, can’t, wait, take this,” he lugs a carry bag into his arms “you can’t _disappear_ for six months, the world thinks your _dead—_ ”

“— Let them,” Tony says around the keys in his mouth “That way we won’t be interrupted.” And he opens the trunk, pushes the bag inside, slams it down.

“Do you realise,” Steve breathes heavily through his nose “what you _did?_ I had to tell Pepper you were dead, Tony. Pepper. Because, you wouldn’t tell her the truth, and then you just _left—”_ Steve climbs into the passenger seat, pulls the door closed, his voice muffled but still audible in the echoing space of the lot.

“— you _left,_ and, Christ, what is Rhodes gonna say, he thinks I screwed you over, Tony—”

“Rhodey’s not going to say _anything,_ ” Tony snaps “because I am going to stay dead.”

“Like hell you’re going to stay dead, you sanctimonious _prick,_ you’re going to fucking _tell me_ where you’ve been!” Steve catches Tony’s hand in his, holds on tight, and Tony lets him. “Six months,” he says heavily, “six months, and then you come into my bed and tell me we’re going to _Peru,_ that doesn’t fly, Tony. Where were you."

Tony swallows, frees his hand, and turns the key in the ignition.

“I need you to trust me,” he murmurs.

“I do.” Steve says “But I need _answers_.”

For the first three minutes after finding Tony in his bed, Steve had been ecstatic. Just touching Tony had made him feel exulted, high, happy, and he’d hugged him, crushed him to his chest and squeezed.

Then, he punched him in the face.

It was remarkable how Tony Stark has the innate ability to get on his nerves, even now.

And then he said he could find a cure. But that he needed Steve. Because Steve wasn’t going to be safe anymore. Because there was someone coming for him.

Tony said that he would explain, that he would make everything clear, but that ‘right now, you need to trust me.’ And Steve _did_ trust him. But he was angry.

The car begins to move and Tony stays tight lipped. He doesn’t talk at all, does not acknowledge Steve, until they leave the state some three hours later.

“I fucked up,” he says “I really fucked up.”

Steve nods, crosses his arms. “I know.”

“No,” he snaps “you don’t. Do you think it didn’t cost me, too? That I didn’t spend every second—” he clears his throat, starts again. “I’m just sorry that I had to drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” Steve says, soft. “I’m following you.”

“It’s the imprint, though.” Tony shakes his head “You wouldn’t be here without it.”

Steve thinks. “I might’ve been,” he says quietly “if you wanted me to.”

Tony looks at him but Steve turns his head, stares out the passenger window at the what will soon be the rising sun.

“Will this burn you?” He says absently and Tony shakes his head,

“It’s protected glass. It won’t let UV rays through.”

Steve hums, leans his head against the glass. “Where are we going?” He tries again.

“Alaska.”

Steve jerks. “ _What?”_

Tony sighs “I have some things I need to pick up first, it’s fine, it’s a little detour—”

“You said Peru!”

“Yeah, but we need to go to Alaska first—”

“You want to travel from one end of North America to the other end of the South, what is _wrong_ with you, why wouldn’t you mention that—”

“Well, I’m sorry,” and Tony actually laughs, although it’s a nice sound “I thought you were onboard.”

“We could’ve taken a _quinjet—”_

“Yeah, that would be easy to explain.”

“I need to _eat,_ Tony. I need to _sleep._ I can’t live in a car for a week.”

“We can stop, okay? There’ll be motels. But we need to keep a low profile, Steve.” For a moment, his eyes slide shut, and he looks a bit exhausted. Then he re-focuses on the road, sets his jaw.

“Tell me where we’re going,” Steve says quietly.

“They told me there was a cure.” Tony says, not looking at Steve “And they told me where to find it.”

“A cure. Are you… are you sure?” Steve says tactfully.

Tony swallows. “I— I am clutching at straws, Steve. But they told that I could be cured and, and I can’t spend the rest of my _life_ like this, it’s…” he shakes his head “you have no idea.” He says quietly.

Rain spatters against the window.

Steve wonders what Tony was doing, all those months, alone. Where he was. Why, why he _chose_ to hide for so long, what could have possessed him to think that was an actual good idea. Steve had _missed_ him, goddamn, he had _missed him,_ he had spent nights curled thinking, worrying, praying, that he would return, he had had nightmares about finding Tony’s bloated body at some anonymous shore, had searched and searched and searched and Tony comes back _now_ and he tells him that he was on a break for six months, but that sorry he didn’t leave a note, it just ‘didn’t seem important’ at the time. Is Steve not important to him? He thought that was how the imprint was supposed to work. Tony was supposed, he was, there was supposed to be something _there._

Unless, of course, he hates him. In which case.

“You left.” Steve says after a silence. “You left, and you didn’t tell me where you were going, or why,” his voice turns hard, it has terse edge “and you expect me not to be angry?” His voice is flat.

“Steve,” Tony starts but he interrupts anyway.

“You could have been _dead,”_ Steve says, jaw grinding “you could have be _taken._ For all I knew, Tony, you were living it up with your vampire friends, going on killing sprees—”

“Oh, _that’s_ what you think of me.” Tony mutters “That’s, okay, fine, I see.”

“Don’t try that with me, Tony,” Steve argues “don’t. Don’t make it sound like I’m the one whose—”

“The one whose what, Steve?” Tony snaps. “The one whose a _monster?_ I don’t have to do that, I’m doing a great job on my own. I left because, because I thought I was going to destroy you.”

Steve squares his shoulders“And what? You’re not now?” He hisses.

“It’s different, now, I can control—”

“Or is this what this was _all_ about, Tony,” he shakes his head “you don’t want the imprint, do you? You hate it. You hate the idea of being saddled with me for the rest of your—”

“Yes!” Tony presses the breaks “Yes! I _hate_ the idea of spending the rest of my life with you, is that what you want to hear?”

Steve jerks. 

Tony deflates.

“I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs “that’s not what I _meant.”_

“Oh I know _exactly_ what you meant.” Steve turns away, stares at the rain stained window. “Don’t worry, Tony. I’m not exactly A-ok with spending the rest of my life with you hanging over my shoulder.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s fine,” he grits “I _understand._ We’re both in the same boat, here, both stuck with people we don’t want to be with, _fine,_ we’ll get to South America, we’ll get your magical cure, and then we’ll go out separate ways, no questions asked, your good at that, you know? You’re good at just _leaving,_ it’s a nice skill to have.”

“That wasn’t what I _meant,_ would you let me _finish—”_

Steve is hurt. He is really, really hurt. And so, he becomes cruel. Because, fine. Tony doesn’t care, _fine,_ it’s not like Steve cares. He was _worried_ about him, for Christ’s sake, he was _worried,_ and it would have been nice, as Tony’s, you know, one true love, to have been informed of his departure. Maybe a postcard or two, just to confirm that he was in fact still alive. But obviously, Tony doesn’t care enough to do that. Tony does not want this. Neither does Steve. But still. It hurts more than he wants to admit.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Steve,” Tony whispers. He whispers it, for some reason, and he lets his head fall forward on the wheel. “Christ, I just, I didn’t _trust_ myself. I took a bite out of you just because you got too close, I went, and I learnt to control myself. It wasn’t,” he turns his head, looks at Steve who continues to watch the rain crackle on the pane “it wasn’t _you._ ”

Steve snorts. “You hate the idea of spending the rest of your life with me.”

“Yes, Steve, I hate the idea of me having to spend the rest of my life with someone like you, someone—”

“Someone like _me!?”_ Steve spins, face contorted.

“— whose, God, just _better,_ it’s not fair, I don’t, I’m going to drag you down, or hurt you, and it’s not fair that you were,” he swallows “it’s not fair that just because I took a bite you’re going to have to suffer. I’m sorry.” And he looks away. 

“Sorry for… sorry for leaving? Or sorry for the imprint?” Steve says cautiously.

“I won’t apologise for leaving. Because it was the right thing to do.” He says, not looking at Steve, not acknowledging him. “But,” he sighs softly, looks at his hands “look, I’m sorry that this had to happen to you. That you had to be landed with my crazy.”

Steve frowns. He feels a lump at the back of his throat.

“I’m not, I’m not stuck with your crazy,” he says, shaking his head “I just would have appreciated if you had, you know, _told me,_ where you were. It, it _hurt_ Tony, don’t you get it? It hurt to not have you with me— wait, where, where are you going? Hey!”

Tony opens the car door and slides out, leaves it wide, wind and rain splitting onto the leather seats. “Hey!” Steve shouts, but Tony keeps walking, they’re parked in the middle of the road but it’s completely deserted, it’s so early and it’s rarely used anyway, and Steve says “Come back here!”

Tony just keeps walking, hands in pockets. He cuts a striking silhouette in a ragged suit, torrid rain plastering his hair to his face, striding towards the moon.

Steve slams his door, feet slipping on the metal edge of the car, splashing against the concrete of the road. Almost immediately he is soaked through, and it’s cold, for fucks sake Tony, just come back, he didn’t mean it, any of it.

He runs, a wet hand slides over Tony’s shoulder, grips and spins. He shakes his head, little droplets of water splashing as they roll off the tips.

“What are you doing?” He gasps “Come back, we need to go. South America, remember, we’re going to Peru!”

Tony stares at him, but his eyes aren’t quite seeing. They are fluorescent in the dark light and he’s drenched through, shirt plastered to his body, _every_ bit of his body, and Steve is suddenly very conscious that he looks the same way.

“Don’t say that,” Tony murmurs, barely audible over the sound of the rain “don’t settle for me, Steve. It’s not worth it.”

“Not—” Steve pants, ducks in the rain “are you _crazy?_ Of course you’re worth it, you’re 100% worth it. Get in the car, I’ll show you how worth it you are—”

“You’re cold.” Tony says with a slight frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t notice it anymore.” And it’s said very politely, like Tony has accidentally spilled water on Steve’s papers.

“What are you doing,” Steve says again “why are you walking?”

Tony blinks. “I don’t know. I think—you know, I was insane, right?” Tony’s eyes shift, they move somewhere else, no longer present. They stare down the road. “I was so… I was so fucking _lonely._ And, and _feral._ That first week, I couldn’t find my bunker, I kept, I kept getting caught in the sun. And then there were hikers, and they shouldn’t have _been there,_ okay? They shouldn’t, it’s not, the public can’t go there, but, but I was _so hungry—”_

“It’s not your fault.” Steve murmurs “Christ, it’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t eat them,” he says, turning back to Steve “I didn’t. But I would have. I just,” he ducks his head “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you… and I know, it sounds awful, it sounds like I’m shit, and cruel and petty but I don’t want you to suffer because I couldn’t keep it in my pants one night and because I’ve pulled you down with me. It wasn’t an _easy_ decision, Steve,” he snaps “I didn’t, Christ, I wasn’t avoiding you because I don’t want you, I avoided you because I was going to _kill you._ It wasn’t, I didn’t enjoy it."

He sighs, brings his hands up to wipe at his face, presses his palms to his eyes and rubs, swashes water from his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says “honestly. I didn’t… I didn’t mean that, back there. Any of it. At all.”

Tony huffs, forces a smile. “It works both ways. The imprint. It… it works both ways. I feel what you feel, you know.”

Steve pauses. The rain runs down his hair, his face, traces the curve of his cheekbone. He’s soaked through, shivering. 

“Okay.” Steve nods “Okay, we’re both complete asses. Can we, look, we can continue this in the car? Because, I’m a bit cold…”

Tony blinks, uncomprehendingly.

“It’s raining.” Steve supplies and realisation dawns.

“It’s, oh, oh, God, sorry, uh, I didn’t, I didn’t realise, yeah. Yeah, let’s, Christ, you must be freezing.”

Steve pads back to the car, climbs into the back seats while Tony opens the trunk, pulls out the bag.

He get’s behind the wheel and passes it back, slamming the door with a satisfying ‘thunk’. “There’s some towels in there somewhere, I think, and clothes.” He starts the car and blasts the heat. Steve shudders at the sudden torrent of warmth, rummages around for a towel and drags it over his sopping hair.

“I mean,” Steve says, dragging the towel over his neck “you could have, you know, _left a note._ ” 

Tony rolls his eyes “Jesus fuck, Steve, okay, Christ, I should have left a note, okay? Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve, _I didn’t,_ end of, and, excuse me, but what are you _doing_?”

Steve is halfway to stripping off his shirt, he’s peeled it over his firm form and it’s bunched around his neck. He drags off the rest and it slaps against his skin, the material completely saturated, and Steve is soaked through, he’s all wet and now he’s sweating because of the sudden heat and Tony catches the scent of all that blood and he tightens his hands on the wheel, looks away from the rearview mirror.

“I’m wet.” He says helpfully.

“Are you joking?” Tony says incredulously, eyes fixed firmly on the road “After the conversation we just had, you’re just gonna—”

“What?” Steve says maybe too innocently, because then he’s running the towel all over his torso, his neck, his chest, down his abs and up his sides. “You should, too,” he says “you look like you’ve taken a bath.”

Tony suddenly becomes aware that he is ridiculously soaked through.

“Aw, shit,” he swears and brings a hand to tug through his hair, feels where it is plastered against his brow and tangled. He looks down, glances at where his thin white button down is stuck to his flesh like a second skin and wonders, why exactly, he ran out in the first place. “Fuck,” he says “this is not going well.”

 

* * *

They drive for the rest of the day, Steve alternating from the backseat the front seat, playing with his phone, grumbling, prodding Tony over his whereabouts for six months.

They drive, non-stop, all day with the exception of once or twice for Steve to eat and relieve himself. They reach Indianapolis by 9pm that night and check into a hotel. A hotel, not a motel, because Tony is not going to actually stay in a motel, he’s not that desperate yet. But they check in under false names, just in case. Tony, technically, is supposed to be dead.

The woman behind the counter smiles at them, says ‘one room or two?’ and obviously Steve says one because, you know, Tony’s a vampire, but then Tony gets this weird look and the woman behind the counter smiles wider and hands them their card.

“What?” Steve says wearily “What have I done now?”

“Nothing,” Tony says, terse “it’s just, you know. Why would we be sharing a room? It’s suspicious, she’s gonna think it’s suspicious.”

Steve blinks. “You think that two men ask for a key to one room and she’s going to jump to the conclusion that one of them _must_ be a vampire.”

Tony pauses. “Yes,” he says. And then he thinks. 

“No,” he says, admittedly. “Okay, that was dumb.” And he presses the key into the door, lets them both in, Steve carrying the both bags.

Tony sighs, and then Steve sighs, because Tony has bought the largest room there is, it’s practically a suite, at the top of the building, and Steve shouldn’t be surprised but he is anyway.

“Whose card did you use?” Steve says from the bed as Tony drags towels out of the bag and Tony snorts.

“One of mine. It’s not, strictly speaking, under the name Tony Stark, obviously.” Steve raises an eyebrow and Tony shrugs “I have some money, tucked away, in Swiss bank accounts. They’re not too fussed about you creating a false identity when they don’t know it’s you.”

Steve shakes his head and Tony moves to the bathroom. “Hey, I’m showering first, okay? Okay.” And he slams the door shut.

Steve knocks, raps his knuckles against the door.

“What?” Tony calls irritably, voice muffled.

“You’re a vampire, Tony. Maybe _I_ should get first shower?”

“I have needs.” He calls back, and Steve hears the sound of running water.

“Ass,” he mutters under his breath and Tony shouts back.

“I heard that.”

“Try not to slip,” Steve quips and moves to the room service menu. “I’m ordering food,” he says, not bothering to shout, knowing Tony can hear him perfectly “say, you want anything?”

Steve’s own sensitised ears catch the grumbled words “your ass on a platter” and Steve calls “What was that?”

“You think you’re funny,” Tony says “but you’re actually not.”

Steve orders two burgers because he is _hungry_ and then some coke and water and fries. He lies on the bed, flicks on the news, watches TV while he waits.

He’s tired, he realises. He could easily sleep. And for the first time, it would be sleep knowing that Tony was safe. That he was _alive._ It would be good.

The food arrives and Steve eats fast, throwing fries and meat into his mouth like it’s his last supper, and he feels bloated and heavy and _content,_ like this great weight has been lifted because now there’s a chance that Tony might be cured and even if he’s not at least he’s back and Steve swears he’s never going to let him out of his sight again.

Until Tony opens the door of the bathroom, steam billowing out, wrapped only in a towel that hangs low on his hips.

Steve wonders if this is payback for the backseat strip show. He has a sneaking suspicion it might be.

Tony is rifling through clothes in one of the bag, one hand holding his towel to his waist. It slips, slightly, and Steve catches a glimpse of the place where his ass joins his back.

He chokes loudly, obnoxiously, chewed meat flying all over the bed, coughing and spluttering and Tony makes a face.

“Eww.” He says.

“You drink blood,” Steve gasps, face red, rubbing his neck. “And put some clothes on,” he adds, recovering.

Tony smiles and lets the towel slip and Steve almost, almost, looks away, but he won’t give Tony that satisfaction. If Tony wants to play chicken that’s _fine,_ he can _play_ chicken. He won’t be the loser.

Tony rifles casually through his bag until he slips on underwear, then jeans and then a plain black v-neck t-shirt. His feet are bare, though, and his little toes poke endearingly from out under the folds of his jeans. He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighs, and fishes around his phone.

“It’s all yours,” he says, sounding bored.

_Fine,_ Steve thinks. _Fine. Two can play at that game._

 

* * *

After they’re both washed, and Steve has eaten, they sit on the wide bed and talk. Draw up a plan.

“I was with the council,” Tony admits “for about a week. In all fairness, I didn’t have much choice.”

“And they told you where to find the cure?”

“Not exactly. There’s quite a few of us, Steve. The council make the decisions but they’re ruled by Mother.”

“Mother.”

“Yes, mother. It’s all very… think the Ides of March.”

Steve makes a face. “Ouch.”

“Exactly. Lots of back-stabbing, lots of bitching. And they wanted me. Apparently, they make the offer to anyone they think is, you know, worthy,” he winces. “Anyway, I didn’t get a choice. Apparently, they feel bad. Goes against the secret code or something.”

“So they told you where to find a cure?”

“Yes.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t believe it.”

Tony looks at him with sad eyes. “What other choice do I have?” He says quietly.

“Seems to me like they’re getting you to do their dirty work for them.”

Tony is quiet. He stares out at the dark city.

“There’s a woman,” he murmurs, distracted. 

Steve looks up. “A woman?” He says sharply.

Tony’s eyes soften. “Not like that. She,” he swallows “she likes to carve patterns into people backs in her free time. And then she sucks the blood off the blade.”

Steve remains silent.

“I have no… _illusions,_ as to who and what I’m playing with. What I’m part of. But if I don’t get this cure, you know what’s going to happen?”

Steve shakes his head.

“I can’t be imprinted on a human. Another rule. And, the solution is, I change you.”

Steve swallows. “And failing that?”

“We break the print’”

“By?”

“They kill you.” He says, voice straining to stay light. “Or me. Most likely me. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s me.” Tony slides off the bed, pads to the window.

Steve shakes his head. “That’s not actually comforting.”

“Yeah, well. What you gonna do about it.”

A silence.

“This cure.” Steve starts “Do you even know what it is?”

Tony mumbles something Steve can’t quite pick up. “What?” He asks.

“Gus will be meeting us at my bunker.” He says, still facing the window.

Steve voice goes flat. “Say that again.”

Tony clears his throat, spins. “Gus,” he announces “the vampire that changed me, my _maker,_ will be meeting us at the bunker.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “And what, he’ll be giving us a map or something?”

Tony licks his lips. “Something.”

“Tony.”

“Steve.”

“Don’t play funny. Why is Gus going to meet us at your bunker?”

Tony grimaces, rubs the back of his neck. “He might be coming with us?”

“No. No, absolutely not.”

“Aww, Steve, c’mon, don’t be like that.”

Steve shakes his head, incredulous. “Tony, he is the _reason_ we’re in this mess in the first place.”

“So we’re back to ‘mess’ are we? Great, great, real supportive.”

“You know what I mean,” he says sharply “you can’t… Christ, you can’t _trust_ him?”

“No,” he says “I’m not an idiot. But he’s my greatest chance o,” Tony swallows “if I want to keep you,” shakes his head “if you’re not gonna, you know.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“They’re coming after, Steve,” Tony snaps “or they will. And Diana will carve you open on a slab of rock and drink you dry for kicks.”

“That’s her name,” Steve says gently “Diana.”

“Yes,” Tony sighs. “Look, I don’t, can we not fight?” He looks ragged, suddenly, and he draws a hand through his hair.

Steve eyes him closely. “Are you…”

“What?” Tony snaps “Am I what.”

“Hungry.” He says simply. “Do you want to…”

Tony looks skeptical. And then it melts.

“Could I?” He says, and his voice shakes, hoarse and trembling. Almost desperate. “Is that… I don’t want to, you know, if you’re not comfortable…”

“Tony,” Steve says softly “it’s fine.”

Tony licks his lips.

“Where, uh, where do you want me?” He says, and he is so open like this, so genuine, it almost throws Steve off balance.

“Neck’s fine, Tony.” He says with a small smile. “Here,” and he leans back against the headboard, watches as Tony crawls up the bed.

“Kinky,” he says, but it’s forced, and he’s trembling. 

They don’t talk anymore after that.

Tony tentatively presses forward, his lips skim across the surface of Steve’s neck. He mouths at his pulse, wet lips sucking at the skin, teasing. Tony’s saliva is… whatever it is, Steve moans and his head cracks against the headboard.

“So hot,” Tony says loosely “and, and,” his tongue drags over the spot, preparing to bite “warm, and,” he sits himself on Steve’s lap, vaguely aware that that he’s straddling his hips and that their cocks are pressed together, tight. He bites, and they both moan in unison, Steve arching as Tony presses down, and they rub against each other, almost unconsciously, as Tony suckles at the spot where the blood flows freely.

He lets it pool on Steve’s neck and licks a line down his throat, down, tastes the sweat on his collar bones and then back up, laps the blood that has formed. He continues that for a while, just licking every drop up while Steve shivers beneath him, while one of Steve’s hands comes to fist in his hair.

Tony groans “More, more, Steve,” and sucks, draws blood to the surface. The blonde man beneath him inhales sharply, feels the pressure of Tony’s mouth and gasps, pulls Tony closer and then down, gently presses away from the headboard and lowers him softly to the bed. 

Tony moans and continues to lap at the blood like an animal, half-lidded, pliant. He has to strain to reach and Steve lowers himself onto the brunet’s body, lets him draw Steve closer for a better angle while he writhes on the bed.

Steve brings one hand to circle over that spot on Tony’s belly, that spot where he can be harmed so easily, yet pleasured so fully, and Tony gasps. He looses grip on Steve’s neck, a small drip of blood rolling down his chin. “Oh,” he moans “oh, please,” although Steve doesn’t know what he’s asking for. He keeps that up, watches as Tony’s limbs spread loose on the mattress, as he relaxes gently. Steve rakes his nails over the spot and sits up, watches as Tony shivers, arches of the bed, presses his belly up, offers his weakest spot for Steve to take.

He removes his hand and Tony lunges, presses Steve down against the bed, and it’s quick, and fast, and so hot, because Steve hasn’t met anyone stronger than him, someone who could pull that move off, really pull it off, and Tony squirms above Steve and the blonde man moans as Tony pulls more blood to the surface of his neck and moves down, sucks at his collar bone instead, hips unconsciously rubbing against Steve as he reciprocates in kind.

Steve wants to drag Tony’s shirt off of his body, wants to spread him and fuck him and do everything but he can’t, he would have, but he can’t because Tony draws back, shudders intensely. 

“Oh,” he croons “oh, that was so good. You taste so good.”

He collapses on top of Steve rolls over, completely sated and full and he giggles.

“I haven’t been that full in months, Stevie,” he rubs at his own belly, closes his eyes and shivers at the feel of his own fingers playing with that spot “I’ve been so hungry for so long. I didn’t even notice.”

Steve hears him, he really does, but he finds it hard to focus. He’s tired, very tired, and he yawns, stretches on the bed.

“Sleep, Steve,” Tony says from his place on the bed “it’s okay, just sleep. There’s no rush.”

“Pr’mise, ‘romise you won’t leave,” he slurs, exhausted “you can’t jus’… disappear.”

“No” Tony whispers “never. I promise.”

Steve kicks off his jeans, draws his shirt over his head and throws it away. He should have reservations, maybe, about crawling into bed naked but he really doesn’t, and he barely notices when Tony arranges the covers around his body.

The pillows are so _soft,_ the sheets are clean; he hasn’t slept this well in a long time.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony couldn't hide forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic torture in this chapter. I've contained it to one so not to let it drag on, and the comfort will be up very soon!

When Steve wakes up, Tony is gone.

And it’s not unexpected, because Tony does have that sort of reputation, but there’s a small difference between a one night stand and a live-or-die trip to Peru.

So, when Steve opens his eyes, still groggy with sleep, gropes around the pillow and finds Tony gone, he finds a sudden strike of fear through his chest and anxiety in his gut.

“Tony?” He mumbles, sitting up “Tony?”

The room feels empty, 

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, pads round and pulls on a shirt, jeans. Tony has gone. There is no sign of him in the room.

_He ran._ Steve realises. _He freaked out and ran,_ and then _he promised._ Tony had promised, he had promised and he had lied.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Tony?” He calls again, grabbing his phone, packing the bag, fast. If Tony’s run then chances are he’s already missed him. Clothes spill where he packs them at super-speed, grabs the few toiletries they brought with them and throwing them in.

He ties his shoes, slams a bag onto his shoulder, the other under an arm, and bounds to the door, throws it open and

and Tony stands there, one hand poised, card in hand, over the door knob.

“Uh,” he says “breakfast?”

He holds up a folded brown paper bag, golden arches printed squarely on the front.

Steve pulls him into the room, shoves the door shut and flings the bags to the floor, hugs him, _hard._

“What is wrong with you,” Steve hisses into his ear “why would you _do that._ Why would you leave—”

Tony disentangles, holds Steve’s shoulders at arms length “I got you _breakfast!”_ He says, shaking his head “what, I got you food!”

He did. Steve looks at the bag in Tony’s hand and Tony waves it, slightly, eyes wide.

“Uh,” Steve says. “Right. Sorry. I just, you know.”

“You thought I left?” Tony says wryly. “Oh, Captain, after everything? How could I do that,” he drawls, dumping the bag on the bed “when you taste so damn good?”

Steve blushes as Tony turns, lies on the bed, hands behind his head.

“I, yes, I jumped to a conclusion, okay? It happens,” he says, scooping the egg McMuffin into his hands, biting. “It’s not like you’re reliable.” He says, mouth full.

Tony looks at the muffin wistfully. “Uh huh,” he says, distracted.

Steve swallows. “You can’t eat this stuff at all, huh?”

Tony purses his lips. “No.” He says shortly, but then he sighs, rolls onto his side.

“Do you miss it?” Steve says, taking another bite.

“Do I miss what?” Tony grumbles.

“Food. Sleep. You know, that sort of thing.” 

Tony frowns, rolls back round. Thinks. “Yeah,” he says “but, you get used to it, you know?”

Steve considers. “And did you have time? To get used to it, I mean. When you were away.”

Tony scowls. “Drop it.” He says “I’m going to the car, you can check out.”

He draws one of the bags onto his shoulders and leaves.

Steve huffs, drags the back of his hand over his mouth, scrunches the paper in his palm and throws it into the small bin. Tony is defensive today, on guard. It’s probably his fault. He probably bought the breakfast as a peace offering, because in Tony’s mind, drinking from Steve is a big no. So he bought him a muffin, and Steve had shouted at him, and now Tony’s feeling were hurt.

It’s difficult. Tony is difficult. Steve is difficult. They are difficult for _each other._ They’ll have to make it work, for now. Just until Tony finds his illusive cure.

If there is one.

 

* * *

They drive and drive and drive for days. That night, Tony doesn’t stop at a motel and Steve sleeps in the back. In fact, Tony doesn’t stop for the night _at all_ until Steve puts his foot down and forces him to stop at a small place on the highway.

Tony grumbles the whole night, entertains himself with a laptop, and Steve can see the travelling, the pressure, is taking a strain on him.

It’s easily fixable, though. A few sucks of Steve’s blood and Tony goes weaker than a kitten, pliable, sated and content. That night, after he laps blood from Steve’s shoulder, he lies back on the bed, stretched out on his belly, licking his fingers clean, and it’s not hard to see the comparison.

Until, of course, he saw Steve staring. That was probably the first and last time ever he is going to see Tony Stark blush.

The next day, they reach Alaska.

 

* * *

The bunker is discreet, hidden between trees in a deep forest. There’s a lake, and that’s where Tony parks the car. He tells Steve they’re going to have to walk the rest of the way, there are no roads that lead out.

“How long we staying?” Steve asks, feet slipping on snow, it crunching beneath his boots.

Tony shrugs. “When Gus gets here, we leave. No more than three days, but there’s a shower, and food, and actual beds,” he smiles “I know you like that sort of thing.”

“Sleeping?” Steve says dryly “Yes, very much.” Then he pauses.

“Aren’t you supposed to sleep, like, in a coffin or something?”

“That is,” Tony considers “that is an interesting point. I don’t think so?”

“Can you turn into a bat?”

“Not the last time I checked."

They’re good, today. The atmosphere is light, breezy. Maybe it’s the fresh night air, maybe it’s the promise of sleep, Steve doesn’t know.

It occurs to him that Tony is purposely walking at a slow pace. Tony. God, once upon a time it would have been the other way round.

“How fast can you go?” Steve inquires.

“Running? I haven’t… I haven’t really checked. When I was hunting it was fast enough to outrun a deer. Double that, triple? Maybe.” He shrugs “It’s hard to check.”

They walk in companionable silence for the rest of the journey.

“I have a present for you,” Tony says after a considerable amount of time, placing his palm on the door of bunker. “I hope you don’t mind, I just figured you should have a spare.”

Steve smiles, because he knows, of course he does, and follows Tony down the dark corridors to a wide room, a workshop, really, with nut and bolts strewn around metal tables and a forge in the corner.

A shield, too. It has it’s own table.

“You built me shield,” he says slowly “you, why?”

Tony shrugs. “You know,” he says “because.” 

“I,” he swallows. Grins. “Thanks.”

Tony makes a small noise of agreement and ducks his head, scuffs his shoe on the floor.

“I mean, look at it,” he hitches it onto his arm, supple straps, not leather, something else, durable, and swings, flings out his arm “good balance,” he notes “firm,” he presses it onto the floor, kicks it up so it flips round, straight back into his hand. “Well moulded, and,” he grins “nice colours. Discreet.”

Tony looks up. “You think that’s discreet?” He scoffs, and walks to the bench, drags somethings out from underneath.

“Here,” he says, and he’s holding out gloves. “Put these on.”

Steve stares. “What are these?”

Tony grins. “I’ve implanted cybernetic magnets in the outer casing of the shield that link to your gloves. Just so, you know, if it flies off you can get it back. I’m surprised it hasn’t been done before, actually, it’s pretty simple.”

He’s right. This could have gotten Steve out of a lot of sticky situations.

“— But,” Tony says, taking Steve’s gloved hand in his “if you press here—” he kneads firm fingers into the soft flesh of Steve’s palm and the shield disappears from it’s place on the bench. “Voila.” Tony says with a smile.

Steve blinks. “How—”

“Cloak. Uh, it’s a cloaking thing, just,” he waves a hand, looks down “it’s a thing.”

“Too complicated for me to understand.” Steve says with a wry grin.

“Yeah,” Tony says, still not looking up “yeah.”

Steve is almost speechless. Almost. Because the idea that Tony would do this for him, that he sat in this room and forged him a shield from precious metals, bent the metal with his own hands, mixed the casing, is incredibly personal and incredibly touching.

“I… thank you.” Steve says again, this time meaning it. “Thank you.”

Tony doesn’t answer, just rubs his nose, looks to the side. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel too special. I made Clint some cool gear as well.”

But Steve grins anyway. He knows that Tony put time into this. And he loves him for it.

“I’m just,” Tony clears his throat “I’m just gonna take my stuff to the car, you… I don’t know, you get comfortable or whatever.”

Tony fiddles with a pack on a nearby table, cigarettes, Steve realises, and he watches as he lights up with a match, inhales, drags in deeply, then blows out soft smoke, eyes sliding shut.

He repeats, and Steve watches.

Then, he turns, walks away. Any excuse not to stay in the same room as Steve.

Steve wonders if Tony will ever really love him without input from the imprint. He doesn’t think so.

He inspects the room, checks out Tony’s scribbles, all gibberish to him, but still, he can tell the work that’s gone into them.

Tony sat here, and he made Steve a shield with his own two hands. He laboured over something so that Steve could use it. He did that for Steve. It makes him feel warm inside. Fuzzy. He hasn’t felt like that since Kathy Nugent said he was cute in fourth grade.

He examines the tables, stares at the plans on the walls. Tony had been busy. Doing what, he’s not sure. But he had definitely been working hard.

His eyes stop roaming when they fall upon a map in the centre of a wall. It’s not particularly interesting, just a map of the States he’s seen a thousand times before, it’s whats behind that catches his attention.

It’s pure luck he even spots it, really. It’s just the little hint of blue that give it away.

Steve tugs away the map.

Pictures. Of Steve. Steve laughing, Steve drawing, Steve fighting, all of him. He can see where some of the pictures have been wrinkled, where some are stained with blood, where they have been taken down, held, and then placed lovingly back on their hidden perch.

This is not what Steve wants to see. He feels like a voyeur, even though these pictures are of him. It doesn’t seem right. Steve had his own ways of coping with imprint while Tony was gone. This was Tony’s way of keeping himself sane. He can’t judge, because on night two of Tony’s disappearance he had snuck into Tony’s room and slept in his bed. And then, stolen his dressing gown and kept it under his pillow. This could actually be considered sane in comparison.

Relatively sane, maybe. Because, okay, this isn’t normal behaviour.

Tony claims it cost him just as much to be away from Steve and for the first time, Steve believes him. Tony doesn’t love him, not like Steve. But he’s still suffering from the affects of the imprint. He still _cares._ It makes Steve feel better about himself, slightly. Like he’s achieved something.

He roams around the room, re-shuffles Tony’s belongings, examines every inch of what he can find, tries to determine what exactly Tony was doing when he way away and it’s about ten minutes later that he realises Tony hasn’t come back yet.

Tony can move at speeds that aren’t humanly possible. He is faster than Steve. He can chase down deer in a snap.

And he has been gone for half an hour.

Which really, only means one thing.

He’s bolted.

Steve turns on his heel, as if he has a chance of finding Tony now. It must have been the last straw for him, giving Steve the shield, too much, it shows he _cares_ and God forbid Tony should ever show _emotion,_ no, not Tony, never.

He runs down the corridor, up the stairs to the bunker doors, out into the dark night.

Tony is nowhere to be seen.

The car, he said he would dump his stuff in the car, maybe it’s still there, if his belongings _are_ there then maybe he just got distracted, went for a hunt. It could be normal. Steve could be jumping to conclusions. He does that a lot.

Except when he runs, slipping over snow in a dark forest, and final reaches the lake, he realises how wrong he was.

“Captain,” General Ross says, smile thick on his face, disgusting, Steve wants to rip it from him, wants to knock him to the ground, throttle him, do anything to take that grin from his face. “So nice of you to drop by,” he drawls and the men around them shift, guns trained, not on Tony, no, but on Steve, because Tony will not attack so long as Steve is at risk.

“Water, Captain. Did he tell you? Makes him sink like a rock.” Ross raps his knuckles against Tony’s head where he supports him, and he is standing, but it looks like he’s having trouble, he looks like he wants to throw up, and Steve is so sorry, because this is his fault.

Tony shifts on the balls of his feet. He can’t pounce, if need be, he can’t attack. Not with Steve at risk. He will take Steve down with him.

“Steve,” he murmurs, “Steve,” because he doesn’t know how to apologise for this, how to make this better.

“We won’t hurt him, Tony, don’t worry. He’s free to go, after we get what we need. It’s you we’re after, boy.” And then a trigger is pulled and Tony feels it pierce his neck, hard, dispel it’s contents into his body, feels the milk swirl inside him, and then he’s falling to his knees, paralysed. He cannot move.

“Bastards!” Steve shouts, and he’s run, crouched, tilts Tony’s head this way and that, checks his pupils “What have you done? What have you done!”

Tony retches into the snow. White, slippery, disgusting bile slips from his lips.

“Relax, Captain,” he says, lighting a cigar “I have it on good word that he’ll be fine. The drug, I mean. That will be fine. We have other things planned.”

They strap Tony to a stretcher and load him into the back of a truck. His eyes roam, wide, wary, from one face to another, Steve can see him trying to move, to get away, but he can’t, the water in his veins acts a paralytic and he is trapped.

Ross directs him to the wall of the truck. “We’re going to sedate you,” he says cigar in mouth, almost bored “don’t struggle. We’ll just hurt him more.”

Steve holds his eye contact carefully. “Is that a promise?”

Ross grins. “Sure,” he says, puffing smoke “a deal, why not?”

Steve braces his hands on the truck and waits for the darkness to take him.

It’s all over, and they barely even started.

 

* * *

 

Tony can feel people move around him, over him, and he hates it.

There’s a constant murmur of voices and he can’t quite pick out what they’re saying, it’s infuriating, because he is used to being powerful, he hasn’t felt like this in months, this sense of hopelessness and fear.

He’s strapped to some kind of gurney, metal, and the bands are thick on his wrists, his arms, shoulders, legs, ankles, head, they have him splayed out in this white, sterile room and he can’t move, he can’t think, he’s paralysed.

It’s a nightmare.

They had traveled for a long, long time. They kept Tony sedated, and it was insanity inducing, because he couldn’t move at all, couldn’t fight, couldn’t talk, couldn’t scream. They took him here straight away, they didn’t waste time. Tony has not seen Steve since he had watched them lead him outside the truck.

The light is too bright for his eyes, he tries to duck his head, squeezes them tight, but there is water in his veins and metal on his skin. he thinks about Steve, he prays that his is alive, he prays that he can get out, that someone will find him. 

Now, someone is taking blood samples from his elbow. They feed an IV into the other one, pure water, and it’s enough that he won’t be able to move. It drips into his body and pulls him down, solidifies him, it’s torture.

Ross smiles at him.

“Comfortable?” He says, and ash from his cigar falls onto his face but he can’t move it away, it irritates his eyes but he can’t do anything about it. “You just relax, Tony, you don’t have to do anything. Let it all happen.”

He drags his nails down Tony’s scalp in a parody of affection.

He hums “Just think, Tony. Everything we can do with this blood.” He taps his cigar lightly against Tony’s cheek and he flinches, an automatic response, the only kind he is capable of. “You could hold that super soldier serum in those funny little veins of yours, hmm? Wouldn’t that be interesting.” 

He slams the burning tip of the cigar just below Tony’s navel and he screams, jerks as far as he can. His vision goes red, he’s never really been _hurt_ there before, it’s excruciating, the worst thing, he hates it.

Ross laughs “Does that sting?” And then he crushes the rest right over that spot so Tony whines, a high pitched noise of agony that can form no words, and squeezes his eyes tight.

“I hear you drink blood now,” he says as Tony gasps “no funny business or I’ll throw the Captain in here and let you have him, okay?”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, ignores the ache in his belly.

“Good.” Ross says, and then he ruffles his hair in faux-affection and leaves. There’s a one way mirror opposite him, he can see it he strains hard enough, and any money that Ross is there, watching everything.

“Starting the dose,” a voice says, and someone is changing his IV, Tony thinks they might be trying to test his limits.

But then there’s liquid fire dripping into his veins. Rolling though his body.

He screams.

It’s fire and burning and pain and it rolls through him like a wave that won’t stop and Tony can’t he doesn’t, this is worse than the time he tried out alcohol in his bunker, worse than being split in half by scalpels and heart failure, worse than being held under water, worse, even, than the pain of the change, the never-ending agony as his bones had shifted and biology regrown.

He arches on the table, he can move, but the alcohol makes him weak, and he can’t break against what he suspects is some kind of vibranium/adamantium alloy.

They’re testing his limits and this will end. They’re testing his limits and this will end. They’re testing his limits and this will end.

“Guh,” he says “guuuh,” and it’s long, drawn out, a continuos moan. He feels like he’s choking on it.

“Enough,” Steve says from behind the mirror, and his voice hitches when Tony makes a pathetic noise on the table, a cut off moan, choke, his mouth trying to form words. “Enough!” And he slaps Ross to the side, presses him against the window, but then there are hands on him and Ross holds himself against the bar that runs parallel beneath the window.

“We had an agreement, Captain.”

Steve swallows. “I know. I know, don’t.”

Ross presses the comm. “Let him take twenty,” he says, “let it fade.”

“Thank you.” Steve says.

“Then bring out the prod, I want to see just how far that spot of his goes.”

“You bastard.” Steve spits. Ross sighs.

“Do you want one?” He says, holding out a cigar “They’re Cuban? No? Fine.” He lights up a new one, and Steve hopes he chokes. “Let me tell you something about Tony Stark, Captain. Out of all the insufferable idiots that this planet likes to revere, Tony Stark is by far my least favourite. By far.” He puffs, braces his hands on the bar and watches appreciatively as Tony writhes in agony. He taps his cigar on the window pane. “That man,” he says “is an idiot. He had everything. Everything. And he threw it away for the namby-pamby so called ‘liberal agenda’. He gave up protecting this country so he could dress himself up a call himself a hero.”

“And you hate that.” Steve says “You hate that he’s doing something good for the world while you grow old as a failure with a daughter who hates you.”

Ross, grins, exhales, breathy and harsh. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? But no. Mainly, I just think he’s a little prick.” Another puff “And I like to see him get a taste of real life.”

“What exactly,” Steve drawls “is it about this situation that you think even remotely mimics real life?”

“He thought he was untouchable,” Ross spits “untouchable. The DoD were begging at his feet for those suits and now we’re collecting what we’re owed. He’ll give us the greatest weapon of all.”

Outside, beyond the glass, Tony screams.

 

* * *

Tony doesn’t know how it went so wrong so fast.

He had been going to find a cure. A cure. With Steve. And now, they have Steve, they have him, and no one knows where they are because they told Jarvis to take them off the grid, and because the world thinks Tony’s dead.

He was supposed to meet Gus. He was supposed to find a cure before this happened.

It was Diana. He knows it. He knows now that what she promised was going to come true, because she hated him, she hated Steve, and now she was getting her revenge.

In the space in between, Tony is made to feel sleepy. He is made to feel sick. Burning. Agony. One time, they give him something that makes him high, excited, happy, and he can’t control the feeling. Next, they let it fade, dose him with what he thinks is coffee, and then work him over with an electric cattle prod.

They spear his belly and Tony, with some kind of secreted pride, will not scream. He bites his lip, makes muffled shouts, but will not give in.

They don’t feed him at all, and by the end of the first day, he is starving.

But he is weak. After, they let him off the table, he falls to his knees. All his strength, power, it’s all fled, gone under the drip drop of liquid into his veins. He cannot hold himself up.

“Up,” someone says, “up, come on, move.”

They threaten him with the prod. They poke his belly. He swipes at them, moans, scrabbles at the ground. 

“Christ, come on, you fearless warrior, you.” Someone sniggers. “Are we sure he’s even worth it? Look at him, brought down by coffee.”

They treat him like an animal.

When it becomes apparent that he will not, cannot, move anywhere, they bring Steve.

Gently, gently, his Captain picks him up, holds him in his arms. 

“Tony,” he says quietly “here, it’s me, it’s okay.”

They won’t do it themselves, they’re too scared that Tony will take a bite. And Tony, he is hungry, he is so hungry, he buries his head in Steve’s neck and feels the strong pulse, wraps his arms around his neck and lets himself be held.

“A little bite?” He slurs and Steve nods, let’s Tony laps gentle drips of blood from his neck, weak as he is, and sets him softly on the floor of the glass cell, smoothly disconnects his hands where they grasp at Steve’s shirt.

He leaves, but Tony cannot sleep. He does not need to sleep. He needs blood.

 

* * *

Ross wants to test how Tony’s endurance. How much he can hold, how fast he can run, how long he can go without food, and yes, how much pain he can take. He and his scientists familiarise themselves with his body, take samples, scratch at his skin, time how long it takes to heal, make him run on a treadmill, carry the roof of a room on his hands, starve him until his eyes turn inky, black, and he licks the wall of his cell in an attempt to get at the food he smells outside.

Then, after they feed him coffee, they bring him back to the table and they start all over again.

 

* * *

Steve watches.

He watches everything, really. Ross finds it a good way of keeping his compliance. _You step out of line and we’ll hurt him, Captain, don’t you forget._

Ross is going to dies, obviously. Steve is going to kill him, maybe. Or maybe he’ll let Tony have him. He hasn’t decided yet.

Ross is foolish. Always has been. Months ago, he met him to discuss the possibility of returning Bruce to ‘state custody’ (medical experimentation) and he had been out-voted by the council almost unanimously.

He hasn’t quite forgiven Steve.

It’s been four days. And today, Steve watches as Tony rocks himself against the wall of his glass cage. 

He’s tucked in the corner, one hand braced on the pane, the other stuffed into his mouth as he bites down on his knuckles, groans. His eyes are black, inky, and Steve has long stopped thinking of them as monstrous. He associates those irises, those inky pupils, with pain. Torture. Something to be cured.

If he could offer himself up, he would.

Instead, Ross measures how long Tony can go before he loses himself completely, turns rabid, feral.

Answer: seven more hours.

Then, he times how long it takes for Tony to fall slack to the ground, unable to move, fight, too starving to have any energy for anything.

Answer: three more.

 

* * *

Tony loses track of how long he’s been in here. It could have been weeks. It could have been months. Most likely, it’s been a few days.

But they don’t let him see Steve anymore. They don’t move him at all. They keep him strapped to the table.

They’ve designed a gag to keep his mouth spread, a guard to stop him from biting down, after one incident where he took a chunk out of scientists hand. It wraps around his entire head, over the top, there’s a slit for his nose. He can’t even close his mouth.

They inject him with coffee and he feels himself begin to drift. It’s not too large a dosage, just enough for him to feel sleepy, pliant. It helps with pain, the pain that doesn’t quite go away since they haven’t really be feeding him. He body hasn’t had time to repair.

Someone drags their fingertips over his belly and his eyes roll into the back of his head.

People murmur, he hears a snap of fingers on a keyboard. “Interesting,” someone says “try again.”

There are soft fingers rolling around the flesh just below his navel and he stretches as best he can, relaxes completely into the touch. He can’t not, it’s natural, it’s instinct. He shifts on the table, squirms, dopey, and then there’s a ‘buzz’ which he hears before he feels and then he screams in agony as a taser hits the middle of his spot.

People murmur, scratch at their clipboards. Tony is floating in some hazy place that pares down to the burning in his belly.

“Let’s try pure ethanol,” someone says and Tony feels his insides clinch, feels the fear and the apprehension because a dose of scotch down his veins is bad enough ethanol will be freezing, fiery agony, a white burn, and he doesn’t think he can handle that.

He feels them replace the IV, feels the first drips of liquid into his body and his breath hitches, he tenses, shudders, an almost constant tremor under his skin.

“Okay, let’s move out, observation starting at, I don’t know, let’s say six hours?”

They don’t talk to him they talk over him and a burning sensation spreads from his fingers to his toes.

“General says to bring the captain to the observatory,” a female voice says and then another, a man, laughs.

“God, he always has to so dramatic. Are we going to be here overtime? Because I’m taking my girl out tonight…”

They talk, and talk, and talk, and all the while Tony shakes on the table, really shakes, he’s shivering, shuddering, his eyes widen and his muscles bulge. He hears them leave the room, feels where they brighten the lights so he has to squeeze his eyes shut tight.

The burning sensation is fast becoming unbearable. It’s working quickly, with more speed and brutal efficiency that it ever has before and small, feral whines cut loose from the back of Tony’s throat, even though the pain has him paralysed.

He doesn’t really know how to deal with the level of pain, because it is constant. There is no escaping it. He shakes on the table and finally cries out even though it offers no relief.

The pain builds.

 

* * *

Steve finds out, one day later, that they aren’t taking him off the drip. That they’re going to leave it on all night, come back in the morning and measure the results. Test his reflexes, his speed, his strength, after 24 hours of intense, crippling pain.

Ross forces Steve to watch, although there isn’t much to see. Tony stopped screaming a few hours ago although he still rasps, moans, and Steve suspects that it’s only because his voice has given out.

“It’s amazing,” Ross says “we’re pouring poison through his veins and he’s just taking it.”

“What are you trying to find?” Steve says levelly, and he ignores the way his fingers grasp the bar so tightly that his knuckles are white.

Ross shrugs “It’s all open ended, really. The more we hurt him the more parameters we’re able to set. You might not have noticed, but he’s stopped healing himself. Or, he’s healing at a much slower rate,” Ross absently flicks through a clipboard handed to him by a young scientist “look here, two days ago we drilled though his shoulder, and one day later all that was left was a scar.” He flips a page “But look now. It’s almost reopening,” he says, pointing to a picture “it’s as if his body can’t focus on healing when it’s under this much strain.”

Steve swallows. They drilled through his shoulder. Casually, they just _drilled through his shoulder—_

“And how,” Steve’s voice does not waver “does that fit in with your master plan?”

Ross frowns. “Not well, actually. We would prefer if he were indestructible.”

“Because it’s so inconvenient when your soldiers break, right?”

Ross leers. “Right."

“How did you find him?” Steve demands “That bunker was secret, how did you—”

Ross takes a drag on a cigar. “Anonymous tip-off.”

“From who.” He growls.

Ross laughs. “One of his… friends. A woman.”

Tony had mentioned that. He had mentioned a woman. Who wanted him dead.

It’s a handy way of literally killing two birds with one stone.

“Let him go,” Steve reasons “and I won’t kill you.”

Ross laughs “That’s cute, Captain. Really.” He puffs more smoke, blows it into Steve’s face.

“Stop. Hurting. _Him.”_ Steve grits. He can take Ross’s mind games, as long as he lets Tony down. “What are you even _gaining_ from this, Ross? What could you be getting?”

His eyes are hard. Empty. Broken. Ross sneers. “Who gives a fuck, Captain? He’s an arrogant prick. I get to decide if he lives of dies. Don’t pretend you don’t get a high off that, Cap.”

Steve turns away, braces his hands on the observation pane. If Tony is going to suffer, then so should Steve. He’ll watch it all.

 

* * *

Tony hurts.

He hurts and

It hurts.

He can’t

quite

think

a

n

y

m

o

r

e

 

* * *

There are lights. Bright.

Tony blinks.

He is hungry. He cannot move.

He is hungry. He is hungry.

It hurts.

 

* * *

Ross sticks to his word. They don’t take Tony off the drip at all, and Steve begins to wonder if death is a very real possibility.

 

* * *

And then, alarms.

Blaring, red. 

He hurts.

A scream. One, two.

The smell of blood. _Oh._

And then.

And. Then.

Then.

The IV gone, alcohol dripping to the floor. Tony shudders. He is going to throw up. The lights are too bright, and it hurts too much.

Gus. Gus and someone else, a woman, dark skin, dark, natural hair, and gold eyes, just like him.

“Oh, those monsters,” Gus sounds horrified, sick to his core “what did they do to you, hmm? Oh, poor darling, shh, it’s okay, Gus’s here.”

“Stop pandering to your ego,” the woman hisses “hurry up.”

Gus strips off his jacket, another suit, another ridiculous suit, and he wraps it round Tony, drags him into a bundle in his arms. Tony lets his head loll back, hang over his arm, he’s too weak to do anything else, he can barely twitch. He moans softly and the woman runs soft hands through his hair.

“Shh, you’re hungry. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of blood soon enough, brother.” The woman says.

“Find the other one, the captain,” Gus murmurs above him, and then they’re moving, and there are alarms blaring, all too loud, too bright, it hurts, it hurts more.

“We’ll kill them,” Gus says, more to himself than to Tony “we’ll show them, hmm? We’ll show them exactly what we can do, those stupid humans.” 

Tony shifts in his arms, closes his eyes, and Gus hitches him higher, presses his head against his chest. It feels good and he smells like vanilla and strawberries and blood. It’s such a Gus smell.

They’re walking through corridors and no one stops them, the woman must have already been through here and cleaned the rest out because it smells like blood and Tony is so hungry he stirs in Gus’ arms, paws at his crisp white shirt.

“I know,” he says quietly “I know, nearly there, and then there’ll be plenty for you to eat, hmm?” He skims his chin over Tony’s hair, tucks him closer, and holds him tight. “We just need to find your captain and then we’ll leave, I have somewhere nice and safe, and —JESUS.” 

Gus turns just in time, fast enough to stop Tony from taking the brunt of the explosion of bullets that rents the air. He hears the flurry of guns and feels where they hit Gus’s back, lodge there, and Gus moans, goes down to one knee, body bent over Tony’s protectively.

“Hold on, Ant,” he says quietly, teeth gritted in pain “nearly there.”

Gus draws two guns from the holster across his chest and fires, bang bang bang, and the men that had been there all fall to the floor, dead and bleeding. Tony whines, they smell so good.

“Here,” and then Gus is picking him back up, wincing, sprinting.

“Lana!” He shouts “Lana! Are you ready?”

Someone drops down from the rafters above them, a graceful slap against concrete and then a louder thud. Tony smells Steve, he smells his blood, he’s hurt, someone has hurt him. Tony tries to turn, tries to see, because someone has hurt his Steve, but then the scent of his blood really hits him, hard, and he arches in Gus’ hold, tosses his head against his chest, weakly strains for a drop, just a drop.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve spits “what are you doing, how—”

“Not now, dear captain,” Gus says in his familiar drawl “time to run.”

“Give him to me,” Steve demands.

“Do you want to be _eaten?”_ Gus counters, taking off in a sprint. 

Tony whines because _Steve,_ he can’t smell him so good anymore. He’s so tired, and hungry, it’s just exhausting, he wants to curl up, somewhere safe, where he can just lie, sated, and recover. Lick his wounds. And Steve’s. All of Steve’s.

There’s another bang as Gus crashes through a door, another flurry of bullets that he twists, turns, ducks, and avoids and then he’s carefully placing Tony on the floor as Lana and Steve burst through. They circle him protectively, Steve ducks, crouches by his head and tug him into his arms. Tony shudders, he’s so close, Tony wants him so _bad_ , but he can’t quite reach.

The room goes quiet apart from the ragged breathing of the lone survivor.

“It’s over, Ross,” Steve says, still holding Tony in his arms “you’re done.”

Ross throws his gun to ground, pulls out a cigar. “You’re all monsters.” He says, lighting it “We’ve had monsters living under our noses for years and we never noticed.”

“Tony’s not the monster here, General.” Gus drawls. Tony can see where there are bullets lodged in his back, and he raises a hand to point, to show Steve, and Steve just shushes him, presses his hand back down.

“You are,” Ross says around the cigar “you’re a cold-hearted, killing, monster.”

Gus nods. “Yes.”

Ross grins. “Well,” he says, straightening his medals “I can respect that, at least.” He spreads his arms “Have at me.” He says, tilting back his head and closing his eyes.

“No.” Gus says.

“No?” Ross repeats, one eye cracking open.

“I’ve already eaten. Ant, however, is very hungry.” Gus turns, looks at Tony. “Do you want him?” He asks “Anthony, do you want him?”

Tony frowns. He is hungry. He is so hungry. He is a monster.

Tony smacks his lips, dry swallows.

Shakes his head.

“Oh, Anthony, what am I to do with you.”

Ross snorts. “I told you, Captain. Namby-pamby. Can’t kill, never could. Even now, the perfect monster.” He shakes his head “It’s waste.”

“Destroy your samples.” Steve says simply “Destroy them, and we’ll let you live.”

Ross laughs “Let me live? You honestly think I care whether I live or die,” he hooks his cigar between his fingers, scratches his brow “you’re going to be a wanted man after this, Captain. Leader of a massacre.”

“What about Tony?” 

“He’ll stay dead. Helps avoid lots of uncomfortable questions as to why we’re searching for him.”

Gus shoots.

It’s out of nowhere, and Steve jerks, Tony jumping in his arms, and Ross just falls to the floor, clutching his leg.

“You fucking _BASTARD!_ ” He screams “you _ass,_ you fucking _shot me—”_

_“_ Stone cold killer, general,” Gus drones, turning to Tony. “Eat,” he commands “come on, Ant, we haven’t got time now, the sun will be rising. Lana,” he says, looking at the woman “be a dear and destroy the general’s samples? Meet me back the safe house.”

She leaves, and then it’s just Gus, Steve, and a gasping general Ross. 

The scent of blood rises in the air and Tony’s eyes fill with black.

“Go on,” Gus urges “please, Tony. Just do it.”

“It’s okay, Tony,” Steve soothes “you need to eat.”

Tony is very, very hungry.

 

* * *

Sometime after Tony loses himself to the feel of blood down his throat there is a prick to the back of his neck and he feels himself fall asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been considering a sequel to this since I have plot bunnies that are just, ugh, not leaving my head but that I can't fit in here without an overkill. If you have any opinions, please leave them below!
> 
> Next chapter up soon, maybe tomorrow. Spoilers for fluff, just lots of dumb fluff and comfort ugh.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be a while? I'm not sure, I am having a lot of fun writing but still, real life beckons. I'll see if maybe I can avoid it a bit longer.

The safe house is hidden between two rocks in a nearby forest. The base had been in Washington state and Gus claims to keep a safe house in each one.

Steve does not trust him.

He lets him carry Tony back and they ride in the jeep that Gus picked up from Tony’s bunker, his gear in the back, Steve’s shield, too. They drive the two hours it takes to reach the bunker. Tony sleeps in his arms, and Gus ignores him.

Occasionally, Tony’s hand will fist in Steve shirt. He will snort in his dream, frown. He tilts his head, rubs against Steve’s chest, burrows closer. Snuffles lightly. It’s both incredibly endearing and also a bit terrifying because Tony is a _vampire,_ he is a killing machine, and he just sits on his lap and snuggles closer.

Steve wonders if Tony can actually dream.

“What did you give him?” Steve says, breaking the silence. Gus gives him a cursory glance.

“Coffee. It sends us right to sleep. He’s wounded, tired. He won’t be able to heal properly without more blood. I’m going to keep him in the safe house for the next few days, Lana will be able to help. She studies us, she will know what to do.”

Steve stares straight ahead “And when you say us you mean…?”

“Vampires.”

Steve nods. “Obviously.”

Silence.

“You should know now,” Gus says, clearing his throat “that I was the one who changed him.”

“I know.”

Gus frowns. “And how do you feel about that?”

Steve looks out his window, tightens his arms around Tony. “I don’t know yet. Let’s see what happens when he wakes up.”

Gus smiles, then, shakes his head. And then he stops.

“Captain,” he says, voice smooth, a caress, and yeah, Steve can see why Tony fell for him in the first place “if you and he are to continue your relationship, then he is going to need to change you.”

“We’re not in a relationship.”

Gus raises an eyebrow, and as if in silent protest, Tony snuffles against his chest, yawns softly and places his hand over the place where Steve’s heart beats.

“Right,” Gus says, obviously unconvinced “well, when you admit that you’re in a relationship, he will need to change you.”

“Tony says there might be a cure.”

For moment, Gus looks pained. And then it shutters away.

“That is what he’s looking for,” Gus sighs “yes. Well, if it appears that there is no cure, then obviously you will need to be changed.”

“Then we’ll cross the bridge when we come to it.”

Gus pauses. Then nods. “Fine.” He says “Fine, it can wait.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

Lana is waiting for them, waiting with bandages and blood more syringes of coffee. A bowl with hot water, a sponge.

“Bring him here,” she says quietly as Steve steps heavily on the concrete floor, Tony still completely lax in his arms. He brings him to the double bed that takes up a corner of the large, concrete room. 

The light is kept low, dark, it burns in oranges and browns. It’s disturbing to watch how the shadows pass over Tony’s face when he’s laid on the bed. Gently, he tugs Gus’ coat from out underneath him, leaves him naked on the bed, and it hurts, he hates that he has to leave Tony vulnerable like that, bared to these stranger’s eyes, although he knows it’s nothing that Gus has not seen before.

“It’s fine,” Lana soothes “you can watch, if you like.”

Steve nods gratefully and climbs onto the bed, sits in the corner where the bed is pressed into the wall, watches the proceedings warily. Gus drags a chair to the bed, swings it round and straddles it, arms hooked around the back.

He watches Steve. Steve watches Tony.

Lana gently soaks the sponge in the warm water, drags it over Tony’s belly, the place where they left cuts and bruises and burns. She swirls it upwards, round his chest, to his neck, washes away sweat and blood and dirt. 

It’s hypnotic.

She tuts softly when she finds a spot where glass has become lodged in his side, where his skin has tried to heal over it. Carefully, wincing, she cuts into the flesh, uses pincers to gently drag out the shard. Then, she takes a needle and softly threads the skin back together, snips it with her teeth.

Steve’s eyes shift to Gus. He watches as he tracks her every movement with careful eyes. He loves her, Steve realises. This is his imprint. And Gus does not seem like the kind of man who would love easily, or without cause.

They’re an odd couple, he decides. Lana is unlike any vampire he’s ever met or expected. She is soft. Kind. A healer.

It gives him hope for Tony.

Who, at that moment, begins to stir. His eyelids flutter open, his eyes roam lazily in the low light. He makes a small noise at the back of his throat, blinks. His hands fist in the sheets and he rolls, searching for warmth.

He presses closer to Steve, shuffles until he is on his side, his head pressed against Steve’s lap and his back to Lana and Gus. He sighs, and Steve rubs a hand through his hair.

“Hurts,” he mumbles and Steve doesn’t really know what to do, or why Tony is doing this, so he just rakes his nails softly over Tony’s arm, soothes him back to sleep.

“I’ll do his back,” Lana says, and Steve wishes that he had something to cover Tony’s ass with. Gus seems to think the same thing because he drags out a thin cotton sheet from under the bed, drapes it over Tony’s hips, and it’s not substantial but it does offer him a small degree of modesty.

Lana stitches over some deep cuts in his back that Steve never saw being put there. They run from shoulder to shoulder and it looks almost like some took a knife and dragged it over his back just for kicks. Lana gently sponges the wounds and then rolls him back over, onto his back.

“Dip your fingers in this,” she directs Steve, hands him the blood “let him lick it, it’ll help.”

Steve hates this, but he’s been to war. He has done worse to keep a friend alive.

Tony’s lips are lax, his breathing deep. Steve can see sores on the edges of his mouth where that gag cut in, but they are healing. He opens the bag with his teeth, dips one finger in and then gently waves it under Tony’s nose, enticing him, and presses it into his mouth.

It’s feels wet, and warm, and Tony licks unconsciously, sucks the blood from his fingers. Steve repeats again and again until Tony has taken at a quarter of the packet and then folds it over, places it on Lana’s tray.

“Let him come back up naturally and then we’ll knock him out again. He’ll heal faster.”

“How long?” Steve asks, exhausted.

Lana sighs, her gold eyes shine in the low light. “For a full recovery? Five days. He should be up and about in three. Usually, it would be less, but this is damage sustained over a long period of time. It’s drained him.”

Steve nods and Gus clears his throat.

“If… if you want to let Tony have the bed,” he says tactfully “there’s a cot I can set out beside it so you can keep an eye on him.”

Steve nods. “Thank you.”

* * *

 

 

Tony awakes at some point in the night confused.

His brow furrows, he twists in his sheets. He feels cold, bereft, and he moves onto his front, pushes himself upwards. He’s in pain, he notes dully, his body aches, remnants of alcohol and water in his veins making him feel heavy, burn. He is naked, on a bed. Everything is muted, low, orange and brown. He can hear soft breathing and the murmurs of other voices.

Exhausted, he lets himself collapse back onto the bed in a sprawl. He makes a low noise of pain when he jolts his body, pain in his back, in his side, in head and in his veins. He cries out softly, stretches out an arm in search of comfort, or pain release.

Instead, he hears Gus.

“Careful, darling,” his smooth, low voice soothes “you’re all banged up. Gently, Ant, gently.”

He feels the bed tilt and Gus climb over him to rest by his head.

“Sleep,” he says “you need to rest.”

Steve. He needs… where did Steve go?

“Shh, he’s right there, you just need to rest, little one.”

Fingers dance over his back, they stroke the nape of his neck, up into the sensitive hairs there, massaging, gentle, and Tony’s eyes slip closed.

There’s another prick at the back of his neck, and he feels himself being dragged under. Gus rakes his nail softly down his back, over the curve of his ass, down his thighs, over and over, and it feels good, safe, he can take comfort of being in the bed next to his maker.

 

* * *

It’s disconcerting, awakening in the bunker, because the lighting does not change. It is still muted, still orange and low.

Steve rolls onto his back, unsure of how much time has passed. He feels well rested, at least. He sits up, turns his head and stares at where Tony is laid out on the bed.

He is on his side, hips twisted and legs tangled with one another, completely lax. His mouth hangs open gently and he breathes softly. His hair hangs in his eyes and the thin sheet is thrown haphazardly over his hips, barely covering anything.

Steve should not be attracted to him like this. He is weak, injured, naked and raw and this is wrong, he shouldn’t take this opportunity to take everything in, every curve, every muscle, the way he shifts with every gentle breath.

He traces a finger around the features on his face.

“You must be hungry,” Lana says and Steve jolts. He blushes, despite himself, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, which really, he had.

“Uh,” he says, eloquently “yes.” And now Steve realises that he actually really is hungry and can’t remember the last time he ate.

“We have eggs?” She offers and Steve smiles gratefully.

She leads him to a small, adjoining room and serves him scrambled eggs with toast. They’re pre-made, but still hot, and she must have made them as soon as he woke up. He appreciates the gesture.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” he says as Lana sits, chin in her hands, watching him eat.

“No,” she sighs “I suppose not.”

“You’re a healer. You don’t have a stomach for violence.”

She smiles “No.” She says “I don’t.”

“So why Gus?” He blurts and she laughs.

“Why Tony?” She asks and Steve concedes.

He likes her. She is sweet, kind. Gus, in comparison, is a monster. 

She gives him hope, too. Because if Lana can be so level-headed, so _normal,_ then why can’t Tony? Maybe, just maybe, even without a cure he has a chance.

“So,” Steve says, swallowing “what is it you do exactly.”

Lana sighs, smiles, folds her hands on the table. She is beautiful, obviously, chocolate skin and inky hair cut close to her head, high cheekbones and plush lips, golden eyes, a figure to die for. All these vampires are, they’re all spectacularly good looking.

“I am…” she laughs, a quiet, chiming sound “before I was changed, I was training to be a doctor.”

Steve nods. He can see that, this woman. She would have made a good one.

“But, naturally, it was not meant to be, right?” She continues “I was out, one night,” she shakes her head, looks down. “With some friends. Obviously, I didn’t realise at first…” she clears her throat. “I don’t, I’m not sure what Tony might have told you about his changing, but vampires… we can be very persuasive."

“I know.”

Lana nods. “And anyway, I mean, I went home with him,” a regretful laugh “and…” she shakes her head. “It wasn’t like Gus. Vampires, they’re _told_ when they have to change another. You don’t just go changing people because the mood takes, it’s very precise, very carefully moderated. There can’t be too many of us, end of. But I was caught by a rogue, and…” she trails off “the rest is history.” She intones with a sad smile.

“I did things I wasn’t proud of, those first months.” She swallows. “Awful things. I, that night, after the change, I went back home to my boyfriend, because, well, because I realised what an awful thing I’d done. Cheated on him. Of course, I couldn’t help it. But still, I went home, and… and I completed the change. He thought I was ill, he thought…” her eyes go distant. “The pain, captain, of that change… it messes with your head. I think, I _believe,_ it’s not wonder so many vampires forget what humanity is, when they have to deal with that pain.”

Steve sits quietly and listens.

Lana leans forwards on her arms. “I killed him,” she says softly, sorrow in her eyes “I didn’t mean to. I just,” she shakes her head “I was so hungry.”

“That’s, uh,” Steve clears his throat “that’s what Tony said. Those exact words, I,” he laughs, shakily “I found him in the kitchen, choking himself on whatever he could find, and he looked at me and he just said, well, he said that he was hungry.”

“And the rest is history?”

Steve nods. “And the rest is history.”

Lana smiles. “Gus found me, not long after. A couple months. We imprinted immediately. And he took me to the council. I’m a lower tier vampire, I was changed by someone not of direct descent to the council. Not like Gus. Or Tony.” She adds. “Which is okay, it’s good. It leaves me to do what I please, mostly. Within limits, obviously.” 

“You’re a healer?”

“I’m studying our physiology. Vampires. It’s… it’s amazing no one has done it before, really,” she says, almost wistfully. “I test the effects of food, liquids, find painkillers, drugs. It’s interesting work, takes up my time. I study us, as well. I search history for signs, were we came from, what, because,” she breaks off, shakes her head “how did we get here? Are we a mutation? Are we some kind of alien? I just, I don’t know.”

Steve smiles. “You’re a clever girl, then.”

Lana laughs. “I was, yes.”

Steve muses for a moment, finishes his eggs.

“So,” he starts carefully “what about Gus?”

Lana raises an eyebrow. “What about him? You don’t like him, clearly.”

Steve flushes. “No, I just, I do, I mean,”

“It’s okay, captain. I wouldn’t expect you to. What he did was… extra-ordinarily stupid,” she says with a sigh “not like him at all.”

“I can’t trust him,” Steve blurts “not after what he did. I know he’s your imprint, but I can’t—”

“Relax,” Lana soothes “Gus is… I know he can be difficult.” She admits. “And I’m not saying he’s not…”

“A monster?” Steve interrupts.

“No,” Lana concedes “I’m not saying that. Gus is who he is, he… he had a rough time, before. It changes people. Worse than mine. Worse than Tony’s.”

“What happened?” Steve asks cautiously, interest piqued.

Lana swallows. “He was… he was a soldier,” she says carefully “and I don’t hold what he did against him.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “What did he do?” He asks “How old is he?”

Lana shakes her head. “You should ask him yourself. I can’t… I shouldn’t tell you.”

“But you love him?” Steve demands.

“You don’t choose an imprint.”

“Would you, though,” Steve presses further “if you weren’t imprinted, would you love him anyway?”

Lana looks down. “No,” she says softly “I don’t suppose I would.”

 

* * *

When Steve moves back into the main room, he sees Gus lying on the bed. Tony’s eyes are open, but dazed, his mouth is moving and nothing is coming out, it’s just forming shapes of words that make no sound.

“Shh, darling, it’s okay,” Gus circles a hand on his belly, soothes him “it’ll pass. Go back to sleep.”

Tony blinks, lifts an arm, holds out a hand to Steve. But his face curls in pain.

“Hurts,” he rasp “t’ hurts, God.” He gasps, tosses his head on the sheets.

“What’s wrong with him?” Steve moves forward, kneels bedside the bed and Tony clutches his hand with strength, which is good, but also mean Steve is in danger of having his finger broken. “Tony?” He says “Tony, what’s wrong?”

Tony grits his teeth, moans behind them.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks desperately “Is he—”

“The alcohol has reached his Central Nervous System. He’ll be in pain for a while.” Gus says matter-of-factly, rubbing circles over Tony’s stomach.

Tony curls over himself, rolls on the bed so that he faces Steve, grips his hand tight, tugs. His body is cloaked in sweat, the low light gives everything a horror-movie tinge, it casts shadows everywhere.

“Move,” Steve orders and Gus slides from the bed, lets Steve climb back into his corner. “Tony,” he says gently “come here, put your head here, that’s it. Where does it hurt?”

He whimpers. “Ev’ywhere.”

Steve draws his head into his lap, massages his head with firm fingers. “Sleep, Tony,” he says “it’ll help.”

“Can’t,” Tony grits “can’t, I—” his voice tails off in a moan that escapes from his mouth, that he can’t clamp down on, and he jerks in Steve’s arms.

“Have you got more coffee?” Steve says quietly as Tony tips his head back in his lap, arches off the bed, and bites off a scream.

For a moment, Gus looks unsure. “It might not… this is just beginning. It’ll be worse, later on. I’m not sure…”

“Don’t you have _any_ pain relief?” Steve snaps as Tony grasps at the sheets, cries out, face crumpling and body jerking.

“I have something,” Lana says from behind Gus, a gentle hand on his shoulder “Don’t worry,Gus, I have some.”

“Do it,” Steve says as Tony twists in his hold and climbs shakily, bodily into his lap. He’s gasping and shuddering and he says:

“H-hungry.”

Steve strokes his hair. “Shh, we have some here, Tony.”

“N-no, no,” he moans “I want _you.”_

_“_ I—” Steve falters “okay, okay, hold on.” And he shifts on the bed, leans back into the wall. “Here, come here,” and he tilts his head to the side, giving Tony the access he needs, lets him twist and climb up his lap, shivering, shaking.

The sheet falls from where it had been tangled around his body. It drags down, exposes his naked flesh, with it’s burns and cuts and bruises and yet still so flawlessly smooth, so perfectly tan.

Tony settles himself in Steve’s lap, his legs straddling either side of him, hooked at the knee, and presses close. For a moment, he just sits there, shudders, head pressed back and chin pointed up in the throes of pain, and then a gasp is pushed from his mouth. His head rolls back down and Steve catches his eyes, pupils blown, but not inky, his irises are still gold. If Steve knew less, he might say it was hunger, but he doesn’t, and he knows it’s lust.

He mouths along Steve’s neck so that it’s his turn to shiver. Steve brings the cotton sheet up to tangle round Tony’s back, to protect him from _Gus,_ because he doesn’t like how he looks at Tony, that he was on the _bed_ with Tony, because Tony is his.

He wraps his arms under his and then clutches at his shoulders, holds him up when he is caught in a spasm of pain, when he cries out and loses control of his body, slides down onto the covers. He holds him close against his chest, uses another hand to fist in his hair, guide him to his neck.

“Eat,” he says quietly “go on, Tony.”

He feels the prick of two teeth and then Tony’s spit as he latches on, sucks gratuitously from his neck.

Steve moans.

He wonders if it’s the saliva that does it, if maybe it holds some kind of magical component, something to make it pleasurable for the recipient. Because Steve would let Tony do this forever, he would let him suck until he’s dry, if it meant this pleasure.

Tony will pull back and let blood well up on the surface. Then he laps it up, smears it on Steve’s neck and picks up the rest. He grinds his tongue against the skin, pushes it against the indentations and then starts to suckle with renewed vigour. Steve feels himself go weak, he brings his hands up to fist in Tony’s hair and presses him hard against that spot, makes him take more, because he needs to, and because Steve loves it.

Tony draws back, squeezes his eyes tight. Gasps. “Steve,” he exhales sharply “Steve, I think,” he spasms, his hands that had been clutching at Steve’s shirt and hair tighten painfully “oh, God,” he moans “it hurts, it—”

“Here,” Gus says, and he’s dragging him away, Steve still blinking dazedly. “This will help, it will help,” and Lana brings over some crushed herbs, something, and a small pipe and Tony thrashes on the bed, his muscles spasming, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, _Steve’s_ blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Lana works quickly but smoothly as Tony kicks on the bed. He crashes his head against the mattress again and again and tenses, tries to push past the prison of Gus’s arms. He takes a bite from Gus’s wrists, tosses his head back and forth and presses his legs up, down, they slide on the bed. His fingers curl where Gus keeps them presses by his head.

“We’re trying to _help you.”_ Gus grits out as Tony fights against him. “Ant, _stop.”_

Tony fights the pipe that’s pressed to his mouth in some kind of mindless fear, in hopeless agony. Steve, jarred into action, holds down his head, slips hand to press his nose, force him to take in the herbs.

The smell fills the room, marijuana, Steve realises, and he has always hated the smell.

But Tony stops thrashing. His eyes roll back into his head, whatever effect the drug has on his body stilling the pain but also everything else. He’s not asleep, without coffee he can’t sleep, but Steve can tell he’s not quite thinking anymore. He goes limp, one arms flops to the ground and he breathes raggedly, chest heaving, yet at the same time so still.

His eyes are glassy.

Steve leans back, brings a hand to swipe at his neck where some blood still trickles from the cut. It will be healed, soon.

“What was that.” He says “What’s wrong.”

“He’s sick,” Gus says, terse “he will get better.” And then he stands, abruptly. “I’m going hunting. Lana?”

She stands, smoothly, and it take a few seconds for the words to process in Steve’s head.

“You _what?”_

“I am going to eat. I am hungry. Lana is coming with me. Do you think you can handle a few hours on your own, maybe?”

Steve hates him. He hates this man, what he’s done to Tony, he hates his coy smiles and feral glints and the way Tony seems to trust him. Hates it. This man it a monster, it is obvious, and Tony may want to be oblivious but Steve isn’t buying it.

But at the same time, he can’t stop them. They need to feed.

“Animals,” Lana says quietly, and she brushes Steve’s arms “he means animals. We’ll be hunting in the forest tonight.”

Steve concedes, but eyes Gus warily. Gus stares at him in return, eyes cold, abrupt, and Steve sees the ice behind their clear blue facade, the cruelty and the malice that can roll off him in waves.

And then it’s gone. Then they are gone. And Steve is left with Tony.

He glances at the man in his arms. He’s not quite tracking properly, his eyes roam Steve’s face, his mouth hanging open.

“Does that feel better?” Steve says slowly “Tony, does that feel better?”

Tony blinks. Ten seconds later, he nods jerkily.

Steve wishes, not for the first time, that he knew where Gus has put Tony’s gear, his clothes. He’s been naked too long, it feels wrong, and degrading, and he knows that, when he gets better, Tony will hate him for it. He wishes he had had the forethought to ask Gus before he left.

Instead, he rolls Tony gently from his lap and tucks the sheet around his hips. His long, slender legs hang gracefully, the thin cotton traces the dips of his hip bones, doesn’t quite hide the roundness of his ass. 

He slides down the bed, lies next to him, and they both lie there, on their sides, staring at one another, Steve marvelling at the shape of Tony’s eyes, the fullness of his lashes, and Tony blinking dazedly, whatever effect the drug has on his body not just stemming pain but everything else as well.

Tony frowns.

“M’ sorry,” he sighs, blinking, bringing one hand up to flop between him and Steve, to trace triangles into the sheets.

“Why, Tony?” Steve says softly, watching as Tony makes patterns.

Tony focuses on his designs with a single-minded intensity. He draws his finger up, down, across, up, down, across, makes a triangle again and again, brow furrowing with the strain of thinking straight.

“Because,” he mumbles eventually “because I went away. For that, for a long time. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to, I think, I didn’t, really. I only did it because I was scared, really.”

Steve stills his hand with a soft palm. He brings it to his chest.

“You don’t need to be scared anymore, Tony,” he whispers “I’m here.”

Tony’s brow furrows as he tries to think.

“I… I was lonely,” he murmurs, eyes trying to meet Steve’s but not quite managing to find them, to track them “I was really lonely, out there. And I missed you every day. I had, I had pictures of you on my wall and, and I would look at them, every morning before I worked, and sometimes,” he giggles softly “I would hold them real tight because I was so hungry, and I missed you so much, and I thought that maybe I could get you to come and find me.” 

“Shh,” Steve says, because he knows, he saw them in the bunker, but he doesn’t want Tony to know that. He doesn’t want Tony to apologise anymore, not now that he knows.

Tony frowns, derailed.

“If you,” he squeezes his eyes tight, opens them and looks at Steve with wide, uncomprehending eyes “if you had, like, if you could have a puppy, what would you call it? Because I think I would call it Kirby, or maybe Corby?”

Steve closes his eyes, smiles. Tony twacks him on the shoulder with an uncoordinated arm. “Answer,” he prompts, slurring.

“I think both are very good names for a puppy, Tony.”

Tony nods, eyes glassy but full of concern, like puppies are of the utmost importance. “But, would you have like, a small one or a big one?” His voice is really soft, not quite forming words on the edges, everything blurring together as he struggles to make his mouth move.

“A big one.” Steve answers succinctly.

“Thas’” Tony nods “thas’ good.” He says with solemnity “I would, too.”

Tony is open, like this. He can’t hide anything. And Steve, Steve needs to find out something from him.

“Tony,” he says carefully “are you ok?”

Tony frowns, blinks lazily. “It hurt,” he answers slowly “but now it doesn’t.”

Steve smiles sadly. “No, I meant,” he swallows, his breath hitches and he looks away “I mean, because General Ross hurt you. Because of what he did. Are you, you know, are you okay? You don’t… you would tell me, yeah? If you felt bad, or were scared.”

Tony sighs softly, his eyes half-lidded. He rolls, presses himself against Steve and begins to shuffle his way up to lie on his body.

“Tony,” Steve says in shock, squirming back “Tony, what—”

“Shh,” Tony slurs in annoyance “shh, I wanna hear your heart.”

Steve relaxes. Tony is completely stoned. It’s actually quite funny, when you don’t consider the circumstances, and incredibly endearing.

He lies parallel on Steve, his head fitting onto his chest. Their legs tangle. Tony’s sheet is long gone but Steve doesn’t pull it back over him just yet. For that moment, he lets himself appreciate Tony’s bare flesh as it presses against his old jeans and shirt, Tony’s flawless tan skin.

Tony lies there, his ear pressed to his heart, and Steve gently draws a hand through his hair. Tony sighs, shivers with the feel, and Steve massages the hairs at the nape of his neck, drags his hand down over the wide expanse of his muscled back and gently strokes the skin.

Steve brings his hand up to rest by Tony’s face, opens his fingers. Tony blinks slowly.

Then, he raises his own palm. Places it on Steve’s.

Their fingers lock.

They stay that way for the rest of night, for however long it takes Gus and Lana to return. Linked, Tony soothing himself to the feel of Steve’s heart and Steve relishing in the feel of a heavy body on his chest.

The imprint sings between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments are amazing! Especially on the OC's, I love to hear on how you think they're flowing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the next one will definitely take longer I swear.
> 
> Also, it took nearly 50,000 words to get here

Tony gets better. It’s slow going, and painful, and he spends the best part of a week stoned out of his mind, but he gets there.

By the end of the six days, Steve is losing his mind.

Six days spent underground, in a bunker with no windows, in light that ranges from orange to non-existent. And then, on top, Gus informs him cheerfully that there is a warrant out for his arrest, and that Captain America is wanted for the massacre of twenty-one high level personnel at a restricted army base. For whatever reason.

As a result, Steve is not allowed to leave until they figure out their game plan. And they can’t do that until Tony is fit and healthy.

So. Six days of hell.

He learns that he despises Gus.

And it’s not just mistrust, or fear, or anger. Gus literally goes out of his way to rile Steve up as much as he can. It’s like he _wants_ Steve to hate him, wants him to snap. In Steve’s paranoid, imprint driven mind, he becomes convinced that Gus is after Tony, as if he doesn’t already have an imprint of his own. He remembers what Gus was like in bed with Tony, trailing his fingers over his belly, soothing his pain in ways Steve could not. He remembers how he would catch them, Tony sprawled in his lap as Gus lazily plays with his hair.

“It’s not like that,” Lana had said “that’s just how we _are,_ it’s how vampires act. We’re literally primed to be the most sexual beings out there,” she said with a grin “it’s how we hunt, you know?”

“Then why,” Steve had grit his teeth as he watched Tony lie on his belly, scraping his teeth playfully over Gus's hand as he stroked his cheek, still stoned out of his mind. “Why do they need to _act_ like that, is Gus _hunting_ him? Is that it?”

Lana frowned. “No,” she had said, “no of course not. He’s his maker, it’s how we lend support. I know it’s… unusual, by human standards, but it’s how we show solidarity, how we respond to each other. You’ll get used to it. If you were changed,” she says pointedly “you would understand better.”

“Great,” Steve had snapped. “No.”

So now, they sit around the table in the small adjoining kitchen area. Tony and Steve on one side, Lana and Gus on the other.

Tony looks gaunt, drawn. Physically, he has recovered. But he holds the white sheet tight around his shoulders, stares at the table. If he could sleep, there would be nightmares.

Despite having spent the past six days down here, Steve feels awkward sitting across the table from the two vampires. At a limb. Because he is the only human here. If they decided to take him down, they could easily. Steve knows Gus is already irritable, already on edge, because of the animal blood he has had to consume in lieu of human. He knows it’s not quite hitting the spot. And he can see it in the way Gus’s fingers twitch against the table, how his eyes dart from Steve to Tony and back again.

“So you want to find a cure.” Gus fiddles with a packet of cigarettes, lights up. “Good for you. You’re not going anywhere without me.”

Tony remains silent, but raises an eyebrow. He looks so tired at the whole thing even though he no longer needs sleep. He moves lethargically, all deep breaths and heavy exhales.

“No.” Steve says calmly. “No, you’re not coming with us.”

Gus laughs, a grating sound, draws of his cigarette. “Yes,” he says “I really am.”

Lana puts a hand on his arm, tightens. “What Gus wants to say,” she intones, voice laden with warning “is that you won’t be able to find it on your own.”

“With all due respect, Lana, but I’ve found worse without the help of people like him.”

Gus scoffs. “Please, you’ve never met a person like me. I’m trying to _help_ you. Don’t throw it back in my face.”

“I don’t know, _Gus,”_ Steve hisses “they’re are an awful lot of people like you.”

“You’re not getting to Peru without me,” Gus says “but you’re welcome to try. I won’t stop you. But let me tell you something, _Captain.”_ He leans forward on the table, cigarette in hand, smoke hanging around his head “What you’re searching for? It’s out of your experience, 100%. I’m not talking about a temple in the middle of some high-profile reserve, I’m talking about deep amazon, undiscovered, places that would make an archaeologist shit themselves in joy and then kill themselves because they can’t even comprehend what they’re seeing. What do you think we’re going to find? A cup with the word ‘cure’ written on the front? No, fuck you. We’re going deep, Captain, deep into our roots. Never been done before.” He takes a long drag, exhales. “And let me tell you something, I am not going to miss out. Neither am I going to let you take my child on a wild goose chase down the Amazon.” 

Tony shifts on his seat, draws the sheet around him tighter. Looks at Gus.

“So,” Gus says “what’s it going to be?”

A pause hangs in the air. 

“How do you know,” Steve says, and there is no mention of relenting, of conceding loss, it’s just taken as a given “how do you know that there is a cure.”

Gus smiles, puffs on his smoke. “My mother,” he says magnanimously “is the oldest there is. There is no one, not on the council, not a rogue, who has her age. She was born in Greece,” Gus says “some years before Christianity swept away her practices.”

Despite himself, Steve listens. Because this is unprecedented. This is a woman who has seen the world.

And Gus’s voice grows low, soft. “She speaks of her maker.” He takes one last drag, stubs the cigarette out on the table, and beside him, Tony flinches.

“She speaks of her maker,” Gus repeats “a man from the stars. A god. She says he was the first, the pioneer, searching the universe for food, for the chance to spread his genes across the world. So he chose her, and she was lifted, from her life into the plane of oblivion.”

Silence. Gus smiles, knowingly. Wicked sharp.

“She was the first that he changed. But there were others. Not long after, he returned to his planet, bringing stories of a land filled with blood ripe for harvest. Although, to them it wasn’t blood, on their planet it was the water in which they bathed, the liquid that falls from the sky. And five more came. The original council. This, I should add, was many years after he had first changed my mother. Thousands. She had grown, never changing any other, awaiting orders from her maker. The Greeks, first they thought her a god. Then, the Romans. And then, the Aztecs. Although, as we know,” and then Gus smiles “she wouldn’t be the first alien to be revered as a God. All of them made blood sacrifice.”

It makes sense. All of this, it makes sense, and it’s amazing, it’s a part of history never before seen. Blood-seekers from the stars, civilised, immortal, beautiful. They travel to Earth, change their first, and slowly evolve to be the hunters they are today. It stretches out in front of Steve, as clear as day.

“The original council settled in South America, although it wasn’t called that at the time. They brought my mother with them, an example of what effect their blood could have on the indigenous population. They awaited the onset of the Aztec age, and in the meantime, each of the five members changed another vampire of their own.”

“And then there were twelve,” Lana says quietly.

“And then there were twelve.” Gus repeats. “Six still sit on the council today. My mother included, obviously.”

“What happened to the original vampires?” Steve asks “Where did they go, why don’t _they_ sit on the council.”

“The Aztecs offered blood sacrifice. They thought it would make the sun rise and set. The original council occupied a temple although it has long been forgotten, deep within the Amazonian jungle, some space away from the capital city. When the Spanish invaded, the blood from the war was enough to tide them over. Soon, though, it became obvious that they would need to hunt.” Gus sighs. “A rift formed. Those who wished to move forward, to continue. To spread vampirism around the globe, make us powerful, and then those, the younger vampires, the newly formed, who had grown complacent. And naturally, war broke out.”

“Between twelve of them?” Steve says, disbelievingly.

“A war between twelve vampires is just as destructive as a human war between twelve thousand. The elder vampires were led by Mother’s maker and my mother joined their side. Even now, she stands committed to furthering our species.”

“The cure?” Steve prompts.

“When it was done,” Gus says quietly “and when my Mother and her comrades had triumphed over the children, it was decided that any vampire that was unwilling to move forward would be offered a choice.”

“Like me,” Tony says, and Steve jumps. In the tight quiet of the room, Tony’s silent presence had been forgotten. “Like me. I am unwilling and therefore able to find a cure.”

“… Yes.” Gus says. “And the makers, gave them a cure. The chance to leave, and become human, like they once were. And out of stupidity, and selfishness, and self-righteousness, they took it. And left, to die, killed by Spaniards or worse.”

“And then there were seven.” Lana says.

“My mother left the temple, but the elders did not go with her. She left in order to start a new age, a greater age. She became The Mother of all of us.”

Steve starts. “So the vampires are still there. Still _hidden._ With their cure.”

“Ah, yes,” Gus says with a wince “so, you see, that could be a problem. And that is why you need me.”

The spell is broken. Steve suddenly remembers to breathe and feels Tony relax beside him. The feels brighter, the tension lifted.

“The elders changed five more children to replace the ones they had lost and they traveled with mother around the globe, each changing another until their ranks were back to the original twelve. Mother did not change anyone until me.”

“And when were you changed?” Steve says, voice hard.

Gus swallows. “1946?”

Steve looks at Lana sharply. “You said he was a soldier.”

“You said I was a _soldier?”_ Gus hisses.

“I told him the _truth.”_

“A _version_ of it.” Gus grits.

“What does it matter now, Gus? What’s done is done. Focus on your mission, focus on your cure. Help your brother,” she sighs, infinitely weary. “Tony,” she says, turning towards him “how are you feeling?”

He swallows. “Hungry.” He murmurs.

“Okay,” she says softly “okay, Steve?”

Steve nods, stands, and takes Tony by the shoulders, draws him away from the table and back to the bed.

He brushes hair from his eyes and Tony smiles gently, although he remains still, looking at a spot on the wall.

“Hey,” Steve says “hey, how are you doing?”

“Fine.” Tony blinks. “I’m fine, I’m—”

“Shh,” Steve soothes, and he climbs onto the bed, back pressed to the wall, “how are you really feeling.”

Tony relaxes against him, rests his head against Steve’s side. “I’ll be fine.” He says quietly. “I always am.”

“No,” Steve says “Tony, if there is something wrong, if there is a problem, then you need to tell me.”

Tony chuckles, a sound without mirth. “Honestly,” he says softly “I just… I need a few days. To, to wrap my head around it. I—” he breaks off, squeezes his eyes tight “I can’t quite remember, did I… Ross, I mean, did I…”

“You fed, yes.” And Tony inhales sharply, tenses beside him. “Hey,” Steve says quickly, gently “hey, hey, don’t do that, don’t beat yourself up, that man was a monster, he was—”

“I never did that before,” and Tony’s voice seems close to breaking “I never actually hurt someone before, like that, I don’t—”

“No, Tony, don’t—Christ, don’t cry, shh, please don’t cry,” Steve says, voice slightly desperate. “He deserved it, and you were starving, it had to be done.”

Tony sobs quietly. He doesn’t make a sound, just presses his face into Steve’s side, muffles the noises, even though Steve can hear the intakes of breath, feel the shaking.

Steve has never seen Tony cry. He never expected to be the one to have to comfort him.

Tony’s fingers fist into the material of Steve’s shirt, tight, and he presses against him harder, almost as if trying to bury himself in Steve’s weight.

It’s overdue, really.

So Steve pulls him closer, away from his side and onto his lap, where his sobs sound loud, angry, gasping, and his eyes are shut, he’s shaking his head as if trying to refute the evidence that yes, he is crying.

Steve finds that once the tears start, it takes a long time for them to stop. 

Tony is a shuddering mess plastered against his chest. He sobs and sobs and sobs, one hand pawing at Steve’s torso, against the spot where his heart beats. And Steve holds him, strokes his hair, doesn't speak, because what could he possibly that wouldn’t sound patronising and awful? Oh Tony, it’s okay, you drink blood. Oh Tony, it’s okay, you were just tortured.

“I’ve fucked up,” Tony gasps against Steve’s chest “I fucked up and I brought you down, I brought you down with me—”

“Stop saying that.” Steve demands, and he takes Tony’s head in both of his hands, tilts him up to face him “stop acting as if I wouldn’t be following you if it wasn’t for the imprint, _stop,_ you have not dragged me anywhere I am here _willingly_ Tony, 100% here for the long run, why don’t you _see_ that?”

Tony sniffs, and then sobs again, head supported by Steve’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tears rolling down his cheeks “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Steve doesn’t know what he’s apologising for, whether it’s for the imprint, or whether he’s apologising for breaking down, it doesn’t matter, Tony has no right to say sorry, no need, and it has to stop.

“Tony,” he says, and his voice is a little broken “stop it, please.”

Tony cries rise louder, he covers his face with his hands, shakes.

“Please, Tony, what can I do? Tell me what I can do to make it better.” He says hopelessly.

“Go,” Tony rasps “leave me, save yourself, please, you can hide, Diana doesn’t have to find you—”

Steve tugs Tony’s hands from his face, holds them tight, and kisses him.

Tony gasps against his lips, and Steve almost stops, because what is he _doing,_ Tony doesn’t love him, Tony doesn’t _want this_ and he shouldn’t, it’s wrong, but Tony’s lips are so wonderfully soft against his and when he runs his tongue across his teeth he can feel the light sharpness of his canines and he keeps Tony’s wrists in his, pushes forward until Tony lies on the bed and his hands are pinned by his head, and Tony, Tony could pull away if he wanted, but instead he kisses Steve back, harsh and beautiful and _right,_ the imprint tugs between them, an invisible bond that ties them together and Steve lets go of Tony hands so they go straight to his face, pull him closer.

Steve wipes tears from Tony’s cheeks absently. Strokes his hair. He pulls away, and Tony sighs, soft, against the bed.

“What are you doing,” he whispers, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips “why would you do that.”

Steve frowns. “I love you, obviously. Don’t you love me?”

Tony sits up, lips swollen, hair mussed, shirtless and Steve wants more of that, it’s a sight he’ll never get tired of, he wants to see Tony utterly debauched, wants to see in how many different ways he can take him apart.

“Well,” Tony frowns “yeah.” But he’s confused.

“I love you,” Steve says softly, shifting to his knees, drawing Tony close “and you love me.” He says slowly. 

Tony blinks. “I love you,” he repeats “and you… love me?”

“Is it so hard to understand?” Steve smiles.

“Uh,” Tony swallows “well, yeah. I mean, I’m not exactly a catch.”

Steve rolls his eyes and lies back on the bed, smiles.

“Come here.” He says and Tony looks at him, unsure.

“Tony, please, just come here.” And he pats his waist, gestures, so Tony climbs over, straddles his waist. He is naked, and what once seemed wrong is now beautiful, because Tony lets the sheet slip entirely from his body, baring himself to Steve’s gaze.

And his eyes are defiant. He’s willing Steve to back away, turn around, rebuke him. And Steve will not.

“Gus and Lana are in the next room.” Steve says softly.

Tony smiles. “Who cares? It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

Tony leans forward, and every movement is calculated, from the way he dips his chest to press against Steve’s to the way he arches his back to the way he rises onto his knees, presses his ass into the air. He mouths at Steve’s collar bone, rips his shirt with his _teeth,_ and God, it’s hot, it’s so hot, and he moves over Steve, completely naked while Steve is still clothed, sucks at his neck so Steve’s eyes roll into his head and he moans.

Briefly, Steve imagines Gus laughing at the sound. Then every other thought flees under the weight of Tony’s tongue.

He scrapes his teeth over Steve’s neck, and time stands still.

Steve whimpers.

His hands move up to bracket Tony’s waist, then slip down his flank to his ass. He cups it in both hands, squeezes, feels the weight and tugs the cheeks apart. Tony grins against his neck, presses his hard cock against Steve’s belly.

“Don’t,” Steve says, breathless “I’m gonna make you come, I’m gonna—” and then he can’t talk because Tony is biting, sucking, licking.

“I bet I can make you come just from this,” Tony says, breathing against his neck “I bet I can, can make you come in your pants…”

It appears from nowhere, this moment of passion. They have been leading to this for a long, long time, and yet it took the catalyst of Tony's torture to finally convince Steve to act. This, this moment, is the culmination on their bond, their imprint. Steve wants to remember every minute. 

Steve groans and thrusts up, on instinct. He clutches harder at Tony’s ass as Tony takes from him, as he eats his full, and the pleasure is so complete, so unlike anything Steve has ever felt. It’s like an orgasm all over his body, long and drawn out and unstoppable, he whimpers, sweats, arches his neck to give Tony a better grip, thrusts against him. 

Tony sucks on top of him, moans slightly at the taste of blood, the feeling of being satisfied. He draws away, full, and Steve tries to drag him back down, take him back in for more of that insurmountable pleasure.

“No more, Stevie,” he giggles, and he’s reached that place where he is full and sated and happy, content and easy. He sits up, shuffles back onto Steve’s hips and leans backwards slightly. He fists each hand behind him into the material of Steve’s pants and then begins to rock, cock flush against his belly and neck thrown back, rubbing his ass against the bulge in Steve’s pants.

“Tony,” he chokes “Tony—” But Tony keeps going, grinning, sweating, and pressing himself against Steve, back arched and hands tight on Steve’s legs for support.

Steve lets him, he’s not going to _complain,_ and his eyes roll into his head, he can feel the need to come and it’s unbelievable, to brought to completion this way, from just the feel of Tony on his cock and his teeth on his neck.

He comes, comes in his pants and his hands tear the sheets on the bed, Tony giggles when he feels the warmth of Steve’s spend against his ass through the material of his jeans.

“What that good?” He says lightly “Was I good for you?”

Steve lunges, presses Tony into the bed, covers him with his whole weight.

“I wonder,” he whispers into Tony’s ear “if I can make you come,” and his hand snakes down, skims the skin of his belly “just from _touching_ you there.”

Tony whimpers and arches into the contact.

Steve laughs “I bet I could, I bet I could. I could make you come all over yourself.” And he pulls back, sits cross legged on the bed and just _tugs_ Tony towards him, puts his ass on his folded knees and each leg spread on either side of him so his belly is close, his hips slightly lifted, leaving his belly open, unprotected. Steve wonders briefly if it costs Tony to do that, to leave himself so vulnerable after what happened. After Ross had speared the soft, sensitive spot with a taser, scraped it with knives.

Steve hums and Tony’s hands rest above his head on the bed. They curl softly when Steve circles one finger around his navel and Tony sighs.

“That feel good, yeah?” And Tony smiles, closes his eyes and presses his cheek into the mattress.

Steve adds another finger, draws two up and down his belly, all the way to where his groin starts. Tony makes a little noise at the back of his throat. Steve grabs Tony’s hips, lifts them bodily from the bed and presses his mouth to his belly. Licks, and Tony’s toes curls. Bites, catches the skin lightly between his teeth, and Tony gasps, cuts of a scream of pleasure.

Steve teases that spot, licks, sucks, and Tony moans, pants. He keeps thrusting up his hips even though he gains no relief, even though Steve’s grip on them is tight. Steve takes a moment to appreciate Tony’s musculature, the way his back is curved downwards, how his waist twists in Steve’s grasp.

Then, he bites again, and Tony flies apart.

“Oh my _God,”_ Steve gasps “how sensitive _are you?_ Christ, that’s…” he shakes his head and Tony pants on the bed. His own hand snakes down to his belly, rubs at the spot where Steve’s teeth had been, and he moans again, arches slightly, but apart from that completely lax.

“Did you have fun?” Gus drawls from the doorway, Lana grinning behind him. “It took you long enough.”

Steve scowls and throws the sheet over Tony. “Fuck off.” He growls.

Gus laughs. “That’s cute, captain. If you’re both quite done, I was thinking we could run over the supplies we’re going to need?”

“We’re my clothes?” Tony slurs “Why do I never have clothes.”

Lana slips past Gus and up the stairs, most likely to the jeep where the gear is stored.

“A word of warning, boys,” Gus says “this will be a no blow-job zone, unfortunately. Unless, of course, Steve is willing to be changed.”

“He can’t suck me?” Tony says sitting up lazily “That sucks. That _sucks.”_

Steve shushes him, pokes him with a toe.

“I mean it,” Gus says, examining his nails. “And Tony, you’re going to have to play girl in this relationship. Which I know you don’t have a problem with,” he flashes a grin “but still. You never know when you might want to shake it up.”

“What?” Steve says “Why?”

“Bodily fluid. You do the math, captain. Our fluid can turn people.”

Tony frowns “Did it turn me? That night, was it your come or your blood?”

Steve glares. He doesn’t like Tony talking about this.

“Both.” Gus says quickly, turning away. “Get changed.” And then he leaves, walks outside into the night, presumably to help Lana unpack.

“He’s an ass,” Steve grumbles “I hate him.”

Tony sighs, shuffles closer and lays his head in Steve’s lap. “Hmm,” he says lazily “stroke my hair.” He demands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, critique on how you think the OC's are shaping out as well as any other feedback is loved!!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some gore toward the end so beware!! it's not much but just in case.

One day later, and Steve and Tony stand by the jeep, bags packed and waiting.

“Be careful,” Lana says “and I mean it. Don’t… just don’t do anything stupid.” She worries her bottom lip. “Both of you need to keep a low profile, no exceptions. You only stop when you need to, okay? No hotels. No fancy restaurants. Nothing. You,” she says, poking Gus in the chest “need to keep a fucking lid on it. And you,” she points at Tony “need to make sure he keeps his head out his ass.”

She turns, looks at Steve “Just… just look after them? I don’t think they can do it themselves.”

“I’ve managed okay for the past century or so, I’m sure I’ll manage, Lanny.” Gus says with only a _little_ hint of sarcasm.

Her eyes are sad. “I don’t think so.” She says.

“Lana,” Gus says softly, and it’s a show of emotion that Tony has never really seen from him. He’s normally so cool, all steel lines and cutting retorts, but now he mutes that, gently takes her hand even as she pulls away.

He follows her when she walks, tells them to wait, that he’s coming back.

“Let them mull it over,” Tony says lazily, lighting up a cigarette. He cuts a fascinating figure, out here, in the dark. Boots, strong and firm up to his knees. Kevlar pants, straps around his thighs holding knives and guns filled with water and ethanol tranqs. A tightly fitted vest under another armoured hood which when pulled up apparently protects him from the worst of the sun. Glasses, for his eyes. More straps that hold yet more knives, more guns, and more ammo. And then a belt, heavy, thick metal which straps around his waist, protects his sensitive belly, his one weak spot.

Steve has his shield. He has his gloves. He is starting to think Tony might be paranoid but he’s kind enough not to call him out on it. He reasons that Tony has a right be a little mistrustful right now. They can work on it later.

They. They, because they are a thing now, apparently. Which is good. Feels right. It is natural for Steve to put a hand round Tony’s shoulders, for Tony to rest his head on his, to tug at his hair, trace the bones in his hand with a careful finger. Normal.

Steve watches Gus and Lana where they stand at the edge of the clearing. They talk so softly that Steve cannot hear them, but he can see where Gus slides his hand down her cheek, where she kisses him tenderly, carefully, like it’s the last time they’ll ever meet.

Which it might be, in fairness.

They hug, and Lana kisses his cheek softly, and then Gus is walking back, towards them, except his usual cock-sure attitude has dissipated and he looks drained. He looks to Tony, asks “Are you driving or am I?” Ignores Steve and climbs into the back of the jeep.

He doesn’t look back as they drive away.

 

* * *

It’s torture.

Oh God. 

For a long time, Tony had thought he could handle pain, thought he had the tolerance, had the stamina. After Ross, after that _nightmare,_ he had re-evaluated but stood mostly firm in his decision.

Now, he just doesn’t know. 

There are no words that can describe it, the pain that feels that he is only two steps away from breaking, from falling. As far as Tony knows, there is only one cure, one balm, one _anything_ that could stop the torture.

He’s going to have to kick either Steve or Gus out of the car. Those stupid assholes.

They had been arguing since roughly about thirty minutes after they had left the bunker in Washington under the dead of night.

Now, the sun was getting ready to set and they had just crossed the border into California. Tony was contemplating suicide, or maybe mass murder, which ever one came easier.

“I hear you,” Steve grits out “I just don’t care.”

Gus rolls his eyes, scathing. “Wake up, Captain, you can’t afford to sleep another seventy years. Vampires have been around centuries and it’s never been a problem, people _die_ everyday, you’re a soldier, you should know that.” Gus examines his nails, his favourite past time “You have no problem with killing a cow, why should I feel bad about taking a bit of blood from a human.”

Steve looks disgusted. “You were _human_ once, how can you _say_ that.”

“I grew up.” Gus says shortly. “I’m far more liberal than the rest of the family, Captain, I take a bit of blood from someone else every night, hell, they _enjoy_ it, I don’t need _you_ telling _me—”_

“Like Tony, right? Like how he loves it, like how we’re driving all the way to fucking _Peru_ to fix your mistake—”

Gus snarls. “He did love it, actually, a lot, it was a very fun night—”

“I am going to kill you,” Steve says “and I don’t think I’m going to feel bad about it.”

“Oh so _now_ you’re a killer, only when it suits you though, right? You’re a _hypocrite,_ I can sense it, Captain—”

“Enough.” Tony says quietly.

“ _I’m_ a hypocrite?!” Steve laughs “Oh, that’s good, that’s real _rich,_ you talk about your councils and your amazing bloodline and all your rules, and regulations, how _civilised_ you are, and then you fuck Tony and turn him into a monster, _great—”_

_“_ Both of you need to shut up.” Tony says calmly, jaw clenched, fingers tight on the wheel.

“But of course, you’re Captain America, the people’s person, never killed a soul unless we’re not counting the thousands destroyed in the war—”

“I’m not joking.” Tony grits out.

“In the war? In the _war?_ I fought for what I believed in you _jackass,_ I fought for freedom, you fight for the right to sleep around and suck people’s blood, how dare you even _make—”_

_“_ Okay,” Tony mumbles.

“Oh, _good for you,_ so noble, so _proud—”_

_“_ That’s it,” Tony says.

“You’re a little _coward,_ Gus, I know your type, I saw them all the time—”

“I think I’m going to kill myself.” Tony says to no one in particular.

“Where?” Gus sneers “Behind enemy lines? Yes, all the innocent soldiers you murdered.”

“Check your facts, ass,” Steve shouts “I fought terrorists, not fucking _boys,”_

Gus laughs, high and cruel. “Oh please, that’s what you tell yourself, whatever helps you sleep at night, friend, but you fought in the war just like everyone else, you’re nothing special, big guy—”

The car screeches to a halt as Tony hits the breaks, pulls onto the side of the mountain road.

“What are you doing?” Steve says, bewildered.

“Everyone out the fucking car.” Tony snarls. 

A beat.

“NOW.” 

His eyes fill with black, inky, monstrous, as Steve fiddles with the door, swings out, scrabbles back and Gus flies out, both of them resting on the rocky wall on the side of the road.

Tony climbs out last, his eyes are back to normal, Steve wonders if he imagined it, and braces his hand on the front of the jeep.

“Stop.” He grits. “Both of you need to _stop.”_

“I—” Gus starts but then Tony just looks at him, _looks at him,_ and he falls quiet.

“Enough. It’s enough. You are driving me _insane.”_ He rolls his head on his neck, stares at the spot where the sun has just set. “Both of you,” he hisses “need to get your fucking heads out of your tight little assholes and _shut the fuck up._ ”

He swallows, clears his throat, and straightens.

“Better?” Gus says, eyebrow raised.

Tony exhales heavily through his nose. 

“Tonight, we are getting a motel.” Steve tries to protest and Tony snaps “No, shut up, tonight we are getting a motel, okay? And we’ll get two rooms. And Gus can go and serenade some poor unsuspecting traveller into his bed, and I will eat, and Steve will sleep. And then, in the morning, everyone will be happy.” He face darkens. “ _Everyone._ Agreed?”

The men swallow. “Agreed.”

 

* * *

They had travelled the rest of the journey in silence.

Peaceful, amazing, silence.

Also, intense awkwardness. But Tony can deal with that.

The motel is tucked away, the last stop on the motorway, and Tony has no real choice but to pull in. He’s lived in a bunker under ground for six months, he tells himself he can deal with a grotty room.

Which, as it turns out, isn’t even that bad. A clean double bed, a nice shower. It could be worse. They let Gus run off and do whatever it is he likes to do, which Tony doesn’t like to think about, and then set themselves up.

Steve must be tired, Tony reckons, because they’ve been travelling since the early hours of the morning and were up late the night before. But when they get into the room, he grins.

“You hungry?” He smiles.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Steve, I’m starting to think that you like me feeding more than I do.”

He reasons. “Well, it does feel good,” and he tugs Tony closer by the waist, coy smile on his lips.

“Oh yeah?” Tony breathes, half-lidded, and then they’re kissing.

“Mmpf’” Steve says into his mouth, pulling away. “Yeah.”

Tony blinks. “Don’t you want to shower first?” And he means it innocently, he really does, but then he realises that it might come out sounding a little dirtier than he intended.

Steve just grins.

“My my, Captain,” Tony says softly “what happened to being the paragon of virtue.”

Steve frowns. “I’m only virtuous when Gus says I’m not.”

Tony laughs “You really hate him, don’t you?”

Steve presses Tony onto the bed. “I… despise him.” He says heavily, caging Tony’s head between his arms. “Why don’t you?”

Tony sighs, lets his eyes slip shut. “It’s complicated.” He murmurs.

“Tony,” Steve says softly “you can’t hide things from me anymore.”

“I’m not,” Tony frowns “I’m not. I just can’t explain it, honestly. It’s like… he’s my maker, Steve. And I want to hate him. But I can’t.”

“That…” Steve shakes his head “that’s not right.”

“No,” Tony hums “it isn’t. Are you, look, are planning on staying there all night, because I’m actually getting hungry.”

Steve grins and drags him to the shower, all other matters of conversation dissolved under the warm water and each other’s touch.

 

* * *

Steve is woken by Tony some hours later.

He’s still naked, wrapped only in a blanket, but his face is terrified, wide eyes and shaking.

“Tony?” Steve mumbles, concerned, but still caught in sleep “Tony, wha’ izzit’” 

Tony shakes his head. “There’s someone outside,” he hisses “there’s someone—”

The door rattles.

“Shh,” Steve says, sitting up immediately, covering Tony’s mouth with his palm, placing fingers on his own lips warning him to be quiet.

“What if it’s Ross?” He whispers, and Steve suddenly sees the reason for his fear. “Steve, please don’t go out there, what if it’s—”

“It’s probably just Gus, Tony, let me check, hold on.”

“No!” He cries, tugging on his wrist “We need to leave, we need to go,” and he starts shucking on his gear, setting his ammunition around his arms, thighs, holding a gun between two hands.

A knock at the door.

“Boys,” someone says sweetly “enough playing around, I’m coming in.”

Tony tenses. He turns to Steve. “Go,” he hisses. Steve could make it, if he climbed out the fire escape there is just enough super soldier in him to outrun Diana.

“No,” Steve says firmly, “no, don’t be—”

“I can hear you, you know.” She drawls. “I’m only being polite. I can break down this door in a second.”

Tony swallows. “Just… here.” He says, and he hands Steve his gun. And then he opens the door.

At first, even for his sense, he’s not quite sure what is happening. Because Gus falls through, literally falls, flat onto the carpet, and he can’t see Diana.

And then she appears, stepping over Gus’s prone body into the room and she digs the heels of her boot into his hand, just to hear him groan.

Tony crouches and the door slams shut and then there are four of them, Steve standing with the gun raised, Gus shivering on the floor, Tony tense beside him and Diana, cruel, calculating Diana with her hunting boots and hair tied into a tight red ponytail.

“Ah,” she says, inhaling “he does smell good, doesn’t he Tony? I can see why you would go for him.”

Tony growls and Steve shifts on his feet, tense.

Diana rolls her eyes. “Never before have I seen such male bravado in my life. Keep your underwear on, boys, I’m not here to kill you.”

Tony rolls Gus over, checks him for injuries but there’s just a little sliver of blood running down his neck so obviously…

“Water,” he says, relieved “you drugged him”

“Hmm,” she says, taking a seat on the bed “pity I didn’t do worse, really.”

Gus makes a sound that could be of protest but really isn’t.

“Oh, shut-up,” she snaps.

“Why are you here?” Steve demands, and he’s still pointing the gun, still standing, legs braced, firm.

She pouts. “You’re going after the elders and you didn’t invite me.”

“Uh, no.” Tony says, standing “No, go fuck yourself, please, we don’t want you.”

“You’re going to _need_ me,” she purrs.

“I actually think we already have our fearless troop leader,” and Tony looks down to where Gus is drooling into the carpet “we don’t need another. Not one like you.”

She looks hurt. And it’s so obviously fake Tony almost rolls his eyes. “That’s not nice,” she sighs “I haven’t done anything to you.”

“You’re a murderer.” Tony says stonily.

“True, but so is he.” She says, nudging Gus with her toe.

“Hmm. But he doesn’t torture the food though, does he?”

She grins. “Doesn’t he? Maybe you should ask him.” She pauses, lets that sink in. “I’ve had a long life, Anthony, I’m allowed to take my pleasure where I need to. A few humans aren’t going to matter in the long run.” She stares at Steve, licks her lips. “He would look so delicious on my slab, don’t you think? Imagine, all the blood I could get from—”

Tony lunges, and he’s got Diana on the bed, his hands on her throat and he squeezing, squeezing, and then he presses down and _bites_ her ear and she screams, rakes nails down his back, kicks and pushes him away but the force with which she does so does not loosen Tony’s grip on her ear and as he is shoved into the wall it rips with an awful force from the side of her head.

Diana is screaming and Tony is holding an ear in his _mouth,_ like that’s an everyday occurrence and then Diana lunges for Steve, knocks the gun from his hand and _pounces,_ presses him to the ground and she’s so close, about to take a bite when she is wrenched off of him and Tony drags her backwards. 

They crash through the wall by the door and out onto the asphalt of the parking lot.

“Shit,” Steve gasps, “shit,” and he stands runs out, gun in hand, but trips over Gus and all he can see is the two of them, fighting, and Steve has never seen Tony fight, not like this.

It’s too fast, almost. They move in a blurry of limbs, only distinguishable by their contrasting colours, red and brown. He sees Tony duck, and snap, and punch, all with the grace of a dancer, almost, he can see him calculating at super-fast speeds what move is coming next, how to block, how to parry, it’s amazing.

He can’t get a clear shot at either of them, and then Diana grabs a car. 

Literally, she takes a car by the bumper and throws it at Tony.

He catches it in his arms and it pushes him backwards, he rolls and screams where his skin is torn on the rough concrete ground. Diana lunges, uses the pain as a distraction, straddling his waist.

_Now,_ Steve thinks _do it now!_ And he raises the gun just as Diana punches Tony in the face.

The car catches on fire. Somewhere, Steve can smell gasoline.

Gus stirs behind him, dragging himself up and out, shaking his head.

“Captain,” he croaks “we need to go,”

“No,” he hisses “not without Tony.”

“Captain, you’ll die.” He says, forcing himself to stand, “Come, Tony can fight her but _you can’t,_ please—”

Steve shakes off his hand. “No!” He grits “Tony!” He screams because Diana is hitting him over and over and Steve can see where the gasoline leaks, leaking down, dripping and any moment now.

Tony twists on the asphalt, cries out but catches Diana’s hair in his palm, wraps it around his wrist so she screams and tugs her forward, over his body and onto the bottom of the overturned truck.

“STEVE!” He screams and then there’s an explosion, and Steve feels heat, and debris, and somebodies body covering his, shielding him from the worst, but all he can think is _Tony_ and then something hits his head and the world falls down to black.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'd just like to clarify that Diana is completely insane.

Time hangs still and everything blurs.

Someone is saying _something,_ he’s just not sure what. He smells burning. Acrid smoke on his throat. Hands on his body. Tugging.

Tony. Tony above him. And he’s saying something, he mouth is open. Half of his face is burned.

Oh no. It looks awful.

Sound seems to come back to him in a gasp.

“We need to go,” Tony tugs, desperate “please, they’ve called the cops, we need to go.”

Steve blinks. His head hurts.

“Your,” his tongue is thick in his mouth “your face—” he tries to bring up a hand to trail his fingers over the raw, angry red where skin has been charred away but Tony knocks it away.

“It’s fine, I’m fine, Gus is worse, please, Steve,” Tony begs “please get up, I can’t carry you my arm is broken.”

Steve feels… he should move. He should move. The smoke makes everything feel _heavy._ He doesn’t want to.

“Steve,” Tony hisses, close to hysterical “Steve, please, they’ll find us and Ross will take me back, _please,_ I think Gus is dying, you need to get _up.”_

Ross is going to take Tony back?

Steve sits up and the world tilts. He throws up.

He’s still retching when Tony grabs his hand and tugs, forcing him to stand. He can’t quite support his weight and his knees buckle, he falls, but Tony catches him, cries out when he presses against his wounded arm.

“S’rry,” Steve slurs, taking stumbling steps, Tony’s good arm wrapped around his waist.

“This way, Steve,” he guides him, tense, to the car.

There’s still smoke everywhere and Steve coughs, splutters, even as Tony throws him in, not even trying to be gentle.

Someone is moaning, behind him. A sound of agony.

Steve twists in the seat, uncoordinated, eyes blurring, wet from the smoke, and stares at the red slab of meat in the back of the car.

At Gus. Because Steve is pretty sure that that is Gus, and that his back is on fire.

Steve throws up again, and this time Tony can’t do anything about it, he just puts his foot on the pedal and _drives,_ speeds, and Steve lets his head fall back down and drifts away.

 

* * *

The sun is rising and Tony is fucked.

Gus sobs in the back. Steve lolls, unconscious, concussed, next to him. 

The sun is rising. The sun is rising. The sun is rising.

How is he supposed to help Gus when he can’t leave the car?

Steve isn’t showing signs of waking up, and really he needs a doctor, but he has to force it away because without Steve, and with a broken arm, there is no way he’s going to be able to lift Gus to shade without the sun touching them and he shudders at the thought of what effect the rays would have on their burns.

Gus saved Steve, he had saved him, and he had taken the fire onto his own back and, God, Tony doesn’t know, he just needs to get them somewhere _cool,_ it’s so damn hot out here, he’s turned the air-con up as far as it will go but the heat is still stifling, California in the middle of summer.

Diana. He. He doesn’t want to pity her. He hopes, for her sake, that she is dead. That she doesn’t have to live with the pain of full body burns for the rest of her miserable life.

Tony just needs to get somewhere cooler, somewhere with shade, and then he’ll stop the car, give Gus some marijuana, see what he can do for Steve, he just—

His own arm is excruciating, his face completely burnt. Had he been human it would be permanent but already he can feel twinges, feel slight healing. It doesn’t stop the pain, the irritation. He’s hungry, he’s on edge, and it’s so damn _hot._

He feels like he’s driving in circles. Like he’s going round and round and round. He feels like he’s going insane.

Gus moans, cries, face down on the back seats. “Lana?” He croaks “Lana.”

Tony blinks, tries to keep focussed, he’s in California, fuck, doesn’t he have a holiday home somewhere here? Not quite a holiday, but he vaguely remembers purchasing a secluded mansion somewhere near the ocean, by the border, where he didn’t want to be disturbed. He’s never actually visited.

He has to stop the car, because he’s already driving one handed, but he does get out his phone.

“Jarvis,” he says “Jarvis, you there?”

“Always, Sir. And may I say it is a pleasure to hear your voice?”

“Great, do I have a house somewhere up in California? Not the Malibu one, did I get one somewhere near the border?”

A beat. “Indeed, you did Sir. Do want me to call cleaning services?”

“What? No, just, can you give me directions?”

“Plug me into your dashboard and I will be able to take you.”

Tony blinks, sweat running down his face. “You can do that?”

“Yes, Sir, it was a feature you added yourself.”

He nods, plugs the phone into the dash. “Take me away, J.”

The car rumbles into life and Tony sinks into the seat. “ETA?” He murmurs.

“Estimated time of arrival is currently at 75 minutes.”

Tony nods. “If you’re driving, black out all the windows, I want it as dark as possible.”

Jarvis complies and the car darkens. Tony sighs and Gus makes a small noise at the back of his throat.

“Ant?” He whispers, voice hoarse “Ant, where are we?” He slurs, one hand skimming the floor.

“We’re going somewhere safe,” Tony assures quietly, “don’t worry, here.” And with his free arm he rifles through the gun he had saved to take out a vial of coffee.

“This will help until we get there, okay? Just take it.” And he reaches back, slams the needle into Gus’ neck. He whines, but his eyes glaze over, and soon they’re slipping shut.

Tony is in pain, too, but he doesn’t trust any of the painkillers right now. He needs his wits about him. Ross could be following them, anyone could be following them, he needs to stay focused. He finds some water in a compartment and runs it over the side of his face then pours the rest over Gus’ back. Watches how it runs red.

 

* * *

“Steve,” someone is saying. There is a hand on his shoulder.

“Steve, wake-up, come on, you can sleep inside the house.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Inside th’ house?” He slurs.

“Yeah, c’mon, open your eyes.”

He prises his eyes open in the low light, tries to keep them wide. “Tony,” he says and blinks, sitting up.

Tony smiles, even though it is a harsh, feral thing. He’s breathing through his nose, he looks strained. “Steve, _please,_ get out of the car.”

He sits up, blinks, focuses. Everything becomes clearer, he is in the blacked-out jeep and Tony’s face is burnt all the way down the left side in some horrific scarring, it looks like he’s _melting,_ and his arm is broken, and he’s driven them here, here to this… house? Must be one of his.

Steve turns and recoils when he sees Gus laid out in the back. He can genuinely say he takes no pleasure from seeing him this way.

“We’re in the garage. Just, please get out?” Tony says wearily.

“Do you need be to carry him?” Steve says, forcing his tongue to make shapes in his mouth.

Tony looks relived. “Yeah, yeah, I can’t.”

They both get out into the cool garage, almost too cold but it’s obvious Tony prefers it so he lets it slide. He would too, if he was covered in burns.

Which he’s not. Strange.

He lugs Gus into his arms but the man is out, completely dead to the world so Steve doesn’t have to worry about hurting him. Tony leads him to an elevator, and he’s walking all funny, sloping, clutching his arm.

“Are you okay?” Steve says, stepping into the elevator.

Tony blinks. “What kind of a question is that? I got beaten bloody by a crazy sociopath.”

“Right,” Steve nods, and then he says “thank you for bringing us here.”

Tony grunts.

They set Gus up on his belly in what Steve assumes to be the main bedroom, although Tony wouldn’t know, he’s never been here.

“Could you,” Tony winces “look, could you just bind my arm? Just to keep it straight. And… my face, maybe.”

Steve gently sits Tony on the edge of the bed, moves to the bathroom. They have bandages, they have first aid, it’s just knowing how much they’ll need.

“Stay still,” Steve says and he brings a warm cloth to the side of Tony’s face. “This is going to hurt.” Gently, he scrapes it down the side of Tony’s abraded flesh and Tony’s teeth bite his lip so suddenly that it starts to bleed.

“Here,” Steve says, taking a pillow “bite on this.”

Tony moans into the pillow, his arms clutching Steve’s shoulders as he shakily cleans the wound. He tries not to think about the places where gravel has become lodged, where the skin has sloughed away.

“It’ll heal,” Tony says hoarsely when he’s finished.

“What about Gus?” Steve asks, bandaging Tony’s arm.

He pauses. “It will take longer.”

The man stirs on the bed. One hand shoots out, clutches at the sheets and he tenses with pain.

“Ant?” He says hoarsely “Ant, where, Ant!”

“Shh,” Tony says, moving up the bed “I’m here, hold on. Steve, get a bowl, water, shh,” he soothes “it’ll be okay.”

Gus moans, shifts and cries out as he jars his back.

“Jesus,” Tony says quietly “Christ, just,” he looks sick, he’s blanched. Tony is an engineer, not a healer.

Steve brings him the bowl, hands him the sponge and his lips press into a thin line.

Tony swallows.

“Hey, Gus, this is gonna hurt, okay?”

“No,” Gus moans “no.”

Tony ignores him and trickles water onto his back, hot, and Gus gasps, bucks, one hand swinging out to slap hard at Tony. He hits him in his burnt face and Tony recoils, loses balance but gets it back, sits himself firmly on the bed.

“Hold him, Steve,” Tony orders and then he washes Gus’ back, goes over it with the sponge, and Gus is too weak to break past Steve’s arms.

After, they sit him up and Steve holds his arms up so Tony can wrap the bandages round his torso and back. He’s shivering, eyes unfocused, and not for the first time Steve wonders why nature has made it impossible for vampires to pass out without the coffee.

“I’ll get the blood,” Tony stands, shaky, and moves away. Leaving Steve with Gus.

“Lana?” The man croaks “Lana?”

“Uh,” Steve doesn’t know what to do, really. He hates this man, this man hates him. He doesn’t want to see this. “Uh, no. It’s me, Steve. The Captain.”

Gus moans. “Ant.” He slurs “Where’s Ant?”

“Food. He’s getting you food.”

Gus sobs, then, a tearing thing from the centre of his chest that is spat out onto the pillow. “It hurts,” he gasps “shit, shit, it _hurts.”_

There is nothing Steve can do. He does not relish seeing Gus in pain. But he doesn’t think he can leave.

“Is he okay?” Gus pants “Ant, did he, is okay? Did she hurt him? I don’t think, I wouldn’t be able to live if—” it tails off in a moan and Steve says quickly:

“He’s fine. A bit banged up but fine.”

Gus shakes. “I couldn’t let it hurt you. He loves you too much. Too much, it would have killed him if, if you had died, wrecked him—” and he coughs into the pillow, shouts where it jerks his back. His hands fist into the material, tug.

Steve blinks. “You saved me.” He says slowly. “You. _You_ saved me.”

Gus hisses. “Yes,” he gasps “of course I did you idiot, who else?” But then he can’t talk anymore and his face scrunches in agony.

Steve watches dispassionately. This is the man that turned Tony into a monster. 

Watching him in pain won’t stop that.

Tony comes back, harried, and he’s holding blood. But he’s shaking, the burn on the side of his face an angry red and burning, his arm broken, and he tries to coax Gus round, tries to support him so he can pour the blood into his mouth.

“Please, Gus,” Tony begs “just sit up, I can’t,” he grits his teeth “come on, I can’t help you if your don’t cooperate—”

“Give it to me,” Steve says void of emotion “I’ll feed him, sort yourself out.”

Tony blinks. “Your head. How’s you head, do you need help?”

“Tony,” he says gently “fix yourself up. I’m fine.”

Slowly, Tony hands the blood to Steve, stands.

“Call me if you need—”

“It’s fine,” Steve says softly.

“I’m gonna— I’ll call Lana. She might know what to do.”

Gently, Steve picks Gus up, drags him back till he’s seated. His eyes are half-lidded but they watch Steve carefully.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Gus slurs “you don’t know what I’ve done. You should kill me.”

Steve hums, tilts the liquid into his mouth. “I still hate you.” He says conversationally. “I’m not Tony.”

Gus chuckles weakly, winces. “Ant hates me too, Captain, don’t you worry. I’m his maker, though, he can’t just—” he chokes slightly, coughs, swallows, continues, voice weak “he can’t just _hate_ me. It’s goes against nature.”

Steve watches him swallow. “Do you love him?” He says quietly.

Gus sighs, goes slack. “He’s my only child, Captain. I feel a degree of protectiveness, yes.”

“Are you going to hurt him?” Steve demands “Are you going to hurt him again?”

Gus swallows. “Again?” He says “No. Never again.”

Tony moves back into the room, shaky, blinking, eyes wide. Steve turns Gus round, places him back on his belly on the mattress.

“Lana says we need to keep feeding him and ice his back.” He swallows “Uh, she sends her… regards.”

Gus makes a small noise of acknowledgement. 

“Steve,” he says delicately “I’m, I haven’t eaten in a while, uh,”

Steve nods. “It’s okay. Let’s just get some ice on his back and then we’ll sit down.”

“Already ahead of you,” Tony says in a rush and he leaves for a moment, comes back with a large bowl of ice. “Do we, shall we just put it on top?”

Steve takes the bowl. “Do you have anymore coffee?” He asks and Tony goes again, this time to the table where he’s put the supplies.

“Okay,” he says “Gus, I’m sending you to sleep, okay?” And then he pushes the needle into his neck.

Gus moans when they spread the ice over his back, gasps, and melts into the mattress. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice slurring, confused “I’m really sorry.”

“You’ve already apologised,” Tony says quietly, not looking Steve in the eye but playing with a lock of Gus’ hair.

“No,” he manages “no, I’m sorry.” And then he falls asleep.

 

* * *

“Tony,” Steve says softly. The room is dark, and Steve was supposed to be asleep. Tony could’ve sworn he was asleep.

“Tony,” he says again and that’s when Tony realises he _is_ asleep.

He calls his name one last time, drags it through the air, rolls it over his tongue. He shifts.

For a moment, Tony has the strangest feeling of time stopping.

It’s so quiet.

Steve rolls and the bed tilts under the weight.

He can hear the ocean crash against the rocks.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He wonders if this is what it is like, to be immortal. Time stills around him.

But everything else changes anyway.

 

* * *

Fools.

Idiots.

_Monsters._

She would kill each one of them, she would skin Gus alive and feed it down his throat, she would dismember his limbs and feed them to the dogs.

She is going to destroy the Captain. She will carve patterns into his flesh, watch him dance with the agony, and then maybe she will burn him, too, burn him like his precious _Tony_ burnt her, string him out and force Stark to watch.

And then, when he has finally succumbed to blood loss and agony, drink her fill. Hear Stark’s screams, his pleas, his begging, all for her to stop.

Finish the Captain, and then lay Anthony out on the table, destroy him. Carve spirals; her most intricate piece yet. Humans always seem to die before she can really get going.

Carve them and watch as his mind disintegrates at the loss of his beloved, watch how he falls apart at the seams, how he answers to her and only her, serves her on bended knee, her marks scratched into his body, his back, _his belly._

It would be sweet.

Diana has always prided herself on her looks. Now, looking at herself in her chambers at the council’s head, she looks the part she has long been playing.

Monstrous. 

The worst of it will heal. But her ear will not grow back. Her hair will never be long and beautiful again.

Maybe she should take Stark’s ear, hmm? Make him wear it around his neck.

She saw him get away. She saw him escape. It isn’t enough that he was wounded, Diana wants him to suffer. It’s no consolation that Gus was destroyed by the flames, no, Stark is her target now. And she knows just how to make him hurt, knows all the buttons to press.

She tortures the Captain. Make sure he watches. Kills him, makes him scream with the most painful death known to man. And then she works over Anthony, while he is vulnerable, weak from the loss of his imprint, unstable, wounded. Open. 

She imagines the design in her head, yes, it will be beautiful. Scales, each one intricate, it will take months to complete, they will cover his back, twist round his arms, ass, his _thighs,_ calves, feet. Watch as he squirms in agony. Then bring it round to his belly, _really_ make him scream, and make him lose his mind with the pain, forget himself entirely. After all, she has eternity. He will make a sweet pet.

She lets herself daydream as she lies there, on her gilded bed, the very one that Stark occupied only a week ago. Mother will abdicate at the summer solstice, just two weeks from now, and then she will be in control. And Gus will be gone. She will have the power, all of it, and it will be glorious. No council will be able to stop her.

Beautiful. 

It’s a shame. They should have accepted her offer to accompany them on their trip. She wouldn’t have killed Gus when she comes into power.

Stark, too. She would have let him live. He is a clever man. He could have had a place in her new world. She would even let him keep the Captain, on the condition he changed him, obviously.

They were fools, all of them. She has no need for fools.

Gus has grown weak; Mother herself admits it. She says he has lost his edge, that he has turned complacent like the vampires of old. Too much time spend whoring, and drinking. Diana would never turn from the coven in such a way.

She remembers her maker. Her brilliant, fantastic maker. She decides that, when the time comes to destroy Stark, she will make him watch as she kills Gus, kills _his_ maker, make him watch the life leave his creator’s eyes. He wonders if he will scream when he sees her stab a knife into that spot under Gus’s chin, his achilles heel.

When her maker had died, she had been disconsolate. He had been a hard man, but just. Everything a vampire should be. He never put her needs above those of the council but always cared for her. She had followed him like a puppy, right up until the moment The Hunter from Canada put a spear through his heart, through his spot, killing him immediately. 

That had been long ago, though, she muses. Back before the first war. 

Sometimes, Diana thinks briefly of her life as a meat sack in old London. Back, in the old courts. The Lady Diana. Wife. Mother.

She remembers her old family, and then shutters it away. No use crying over spilt milk.

She will kill them. All of them. And it will be beautiful, truly magnificent. Gus will die, horrifically, _yes,_ and Stark will scream, punishment for what he did to her. Not enough; then she’ll destroy his lover, his Captain. And then she will take him, and he will be hers for the rest of eternity. Her toy to re-shape as she pleases. The scars will need a lot of maintaing if they are to keep.

It will be sweet.

 

* * *

Two days later, and Gus can sit up in bed.

The burns have faded thanks to a liberal diet of blood and ice but scarring remains. 

One day later and he can walk.

A day after that, and he is back to full strength.

But he is not the same.

It reminds Steve of Tony, the way he is now. Wary. Scared, scared that Ross will appear at any moment, take him back. Not quite as bad, but still. He treads carefully.

Steve limits their conversation to nods and glances. He doesn’t quite know where they stand anymore.

Tony is relieved. Steve sees it in the lines of his body, and Steve is happy too, because he doesn’t know what Tony might of done if Gus had actually died.

Not that he forgives him: he doesn’t.

They leave the house that night, but now Gus tells them that they have a deadline.

“It needs to be before the solstice,” he says, wearily “Mother will abdicate and Diana, Diana will take her place as head of the council. And if that happens… well, then you will no longer have the councils permission to revoke the turning.”

Tony blinks. “We can take her.”

Gus shrugs. “Maybe. But she’s going to be out for you now, Ant. She is going to kill you. Or not. She’s a sadist. She’ll kill Steve, let you live in unendurable agony until you stab yourself in the stomach,” he lights a cigarette “either way, we should probably get going.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OPINIONS on OC's are greatly appreciated!! I love!!! every!!! comment!!!
> 
> Also, to the anon who asked if fanworks are okay, absolutely!! You don't need to even ask, just credit.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tony, he can't quite catch a break/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for anxiety attacks

They drive for a long time. They plan to reach the border tomorrow, and they will drive all of tonight. Steve sits in the back so he has room to sleep, and Tony and Gus talk.

It’s easy to fall asleep. The car lulls him gently, the cool air from the windows that open only at night blowing on his hot, sticky, skin. The murmur of the two men in the front. It’s nice.

Comforting.

“Diana won’t stop, Ant,” Gus is saying softly “and when she finds you, because she will, she is going to take Steve and _use him_ against you, understand?”

Tony hands tighten on the wheel. “Well we’ll deal with that when we come to it.”

“He said the same thing, you know. When I said he had to be changed, he told me that you’d cross that bridge when it came to it. But you can’t keep putting it off, Ant. You can’t.”

“Shh,” Tony says “you’ll wake him up.”

Gus continues, voice low. “You’re looking for a cure. I’m asking you not to. I’m asking you to stay.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Tony hisses “No, absolutely not. I have, _Christ,_ Gus, I have a _life_ outside of this, whatever this is. I’m not—”

“The world thinks you’re dead.” Gus says, softly. “You don’t need to do that anymore.”

“I’m not a coward, Gus. I’m not running away from this.”

The other man looks out the window. “Then you’re a better man than me.”

“That’s not difficult.” Tony snaps.

“She will torture him,” Gus says morosely “she will get him. She always does in the end. And then she’ll hurt you, too. It’s what she _does,_ stop applying real-life morality to her, she’s made of stone, there _is_ no humanity left in her.”

Tony pauses.

“Is there any left in you?”

“I like to think so.”

“Check again.”

Gus snorts. “You’re a complete bastard, darling, but I like that.”

“Where are you from, Gus?”

Silence.

“Because, you seem to know everything about me. But I don’t even know your second name.”

“Gus isn’t even my first.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, glances at him. “Really?” Another pause. “You know, this is the point where you tell me your real name.”

Gus smiles. “You really don’t want to know.”

“I really do.”

“I was… I was an honest man, Ant. I really was. I believed in what I did.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“You haven’t heard the full story.”

“Yeah,” Tony says quietly “I get that a lot.”

“I imagine. I—” he clears his throat “I had a family.”

Tony stills. “I’m sorry.”

“Indeed.”

“Where are you from?”

Gus thinks. “Europe.”

“East or west?”

Gus smiles. “West.”

“Okay, I’m going to go through every county, when I hit yours you just need to stay silent, okay?” Right, Spain. No? Germany. No? Okay, Bri—”

“Oh shut up, I’m not going to tell you Ant.”

“Inquiring minds want to know.”

“I’m not sure if it’s an appropriate topic of conversation with Captain America asleep in the back.”

“Were you a male prostitute? Because you actually have that look about you.”

“Do you remember the first time I met you?”

Tony stiffens. “I’m trying to forget.”

“The first time I met you, I told you that if you weren’t proud of your name then you should just change it.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.”

Around that moment, Steve dropped off to sleep.

 

* * *

And he awakes as the run rises.

Another day of driving ahead of him. Fun.

He sits up blearily, runs a hand through his hair.

“What time is it?” He asks, blinking.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Tony says cheerfully.

“You drool in your sleep.” Gus adds helpfully.

Steve tries to remember that a few days ago, Gus was sobbing in pain. It doesn’t stop him wanting to punch him in the face.

“Pass the cigarettes?” Tony asks and Steve frowns.

“It’s not even 7 yet.”

Tony sighs “I haven’t eaten. Neither, for that matter, has Gus. We kinda need them.”

Steve passes them to the front, looks out his window. He thinks he has some music around here somewhere, but he doesn’t think he’ll manage getting back to sleep now. It’s a long journey ahead of them and the boredom is stifling.

It’s made worse by the smell of cigarettes that fills the car. They can’t open windows, because any light would burn the two men at the front. So Steve sits, and bears it.

“Sorry,” Tony says apologetically “it must be a pain in the ass.”

“No,” Steve says mildly “you go ahead. I’ll just, you know, _choke_ to death.”

Tony snorts, takes one last drag and quickly throws the stub out the window, wincing where the light skims his fingers.

“Where are we?” Steve asks and Tony sighs.

“Los Angeles coming up soon. Except we’re bypassing, sorry,” he says with a grin “I know you wanted your 5 star hotel.”

“Tony, I would literally take a cave if it meant getting out of this car.”

“Or a motel?” Tony adds.

“What’s the difference?” Gus drawls.

“Because, you know, it went so well last time.” Tony snaps.

Gus chuckles. “It could of gone worse.”

“I actually don’t want to know what goes on in your head.” Steve mumbles and Gus smiles, his eyes meet Steve’s in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry, Captain, neither do I.” 

He stubs his cigarette out on his forearm.

“That’s comforting.” Steve says under his breath.

“You think so?” Gus retorts, whip sharp “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s always handy to have a psychopath on the team, makes for good flavour.”

“Let me assure you Captain, that out of the three of us you are the only one worth tasting.”

“Really?” Steve raises an eyebrow “really, that’s the best you can do?”

“I can do a lot better than you, Captain.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve feels his irritation rising, like a wave against a dam.

“Yes, for example, I did Tony—”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Steve asks, voice tense, “Because I will. Honestly, I am getting there.”

“You don’t have it in you.” Gus grins.

“I don’t know,” Steve grits “I’m pretty close.”

“Bah,” Gus snorts “you couldn’t kill a—”

“Tony,” Steve says sharply “Tony, _slow down._ ”

Tony’s hands are fisted on the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. And he’s not slowing down, he keeps his foot on the pedal, presses forward, gaining speed.

“Tony!” Steve says “Hey! Stop that—”

“Ant,” Gus says, placing one hand on his arm “slow down.”

Tony either can’t hear them or is ignoring them. They’re driving down an anonymous stretch of highway, deserted, sandy. There are mountains in the distance.

“Tony,” Steve hisses “Gus, take the wheel.”

In the rearview mirror, Steve sees where Tony’s eyes are fixed ahead, unseeing and empty. He’s not quite all there.

“I’m _trying.”_ Gus grits, because he’s trying to prise Tony’s hands free but they seem glued, and something is wrong, something is very, very wrong. 

The car swerves and Gus tugs the wheel towards him and “Shit!” Steve says as he slides down the seats, hits the opposite door hard, bruising his shoulder.

“Tony, let go, we’re going to crash!” He tries, pushing forward to grab hold of the back of Tony’s seat.

They’re gaining speed. Too fast, way too fast, they’re going to crash, all it would take is one swerve and they’ll go flying—

The car lists heavily into the opposite lane and now Gus is desperately trying to knock Tony’s hands free.

“Tony!” He shouts over the engine “Tony! Listen, you need to let go—”

“I can’t.” He says, and his voice is hoarse, empty, his eyes roam, seeing nothing.

“Please, Tony,” he tries again “let go.”

“They’re coming.” He whispers.

“Who!?” Gus screams “For fucks sake, let go! You’re going to kill us!”

There’s a car coming, now, towards them and Gus is tugging at the wheel, tugging and then slapping Tony around the face, trying to bring him back. He slams his fist into his jaw but Tony just _doesn’t let go_ and so Gus leans down and _bites_ at Tony’s wrist so that he yelps, releases, cradles his wrist in his hand but without a hand on the wheel the car veers out of control and Gus grabs it in time just enough to lurch to the right off of the road and then the car is screeching and turning round and round and moving out of control and Gus is fighting with the wheel and Steve just holds on to the back of Tony’s chair and 

and

and then they stop.

“WHAT,” Gus screams “THE FUCK WAS THAT?”

Tony blinks. “We need, shit, shit, oh God, they got us, they got us,” and he starts fumbling with his seatbelt, desperate. “Steve!” He shouts “Steve, quickly! Come on, we need, we need to go, the, the hood will protect me from the worst, if we run fast enough we might make it—”

“Tony!” Steve exclaims “Stop, please—”

Tony makes a low noise of fear, draws his UV resistant hood over his head, his glasses, tries to find the door handle, scrabble wildly.

“No,” Gus commands “no. Where are we, Tony, huh?”

Tony tosses his head from side to side “Get off me! He screams, bringing up on leg to kick Gus firmly in the torso, tries to free his wrists from where they are taken in Gus’ hands “No! Steve! Steve, help!”

“Tony, he’s trying to help, it’s just Gus,” Steve swings round to reach over the chairs in the front, remove the glasses from Tony’s face, tries to soothe him, but Tony snarls.

“Don’t touch me! Who are you, what the fuck?!” He knocks himself backwards, he’s trying to rock himself at the door in the hopes of wrenching it open “Who do you work for? How did you find us, what,” he gives a cry of frustration, moves to snap at Gus’ hands where they tighten on his wrists. “Steve!” He screams, head tossing wildly, searching for him “Don’t let them take me!” He begs, and he rocks himself back and forth, tries to get leverage, tries to run away.

“Fuck, please,” he says, and his voice breaks, “please, I’ll do whatever you want, just, don’t—”

“Tony,” Steve soothes “it’s me. It’s Steve, you’re panicking, you need to stop panicking.”

Tony’s breath hitches and he turns his head away, closes his eyes tight, breathing ragged. “Please, Christ, don’t, just, let me go, let me go.”

“Tony.” Steve tries again “Tony we are in California, and we are trying to find a cure. There is no one chasing us.”

Tony opens his eyes, they widen dramatically. “Ross?” He says, he _breathes,_ “where, I don’t—”

“Ross isn’t here, darling,” Gus soothes, and his thumbs are rubbing circles on Tony’s wrists “he’s long gone, you finished him back at that base.”

“I—” he swallows “you’re lying, you’re, Steve! Steve!” He calls out, eyes squeezed shut, still fighting, still trying to break away.

“I’m right here, Tony, I’m right here, it’s okay, shh,” Steve’s brow creases in worry, he rests his hand on Tony’s knee.

“They’ve got us,” he sobs “oh God, Steve, Steve I can’t do it again, I can’t—” He shakes his head, bites his lip, shrinks away. Gus lets him slide and he brings his arms up to wrap around his head, shrinks into the seat, shaking.

“What was it,” Gus murmurs “what set him off.”

“You’re cigarette, uh, I think,” Steve blinks “he, that’s what he did. Ross. He used his belly as an ash-tray.”

“Delightful.” Gus says, but his voice is tight.

“Take the wheel,” Steve manages, and he gently tugs Tony back, tries to get him to sit in the back.

“Tony,” he says softly “hey, Tony? It’s me, it’s Steve. You need to sit next to me, okay?” But when his hands begin to tug at Tony’s he howls, curls tighter, breathing speeding up and ragged.

Steve lifts him bodily into the back through the division and Tony thrashes, eyes wild.

“Tony!” Steve says, grasping his face between his hands, keeping his steady “Who am I?”

Tony blinks. “Steve,” he gasps “Steve, we need to _go—”_

“And where are we?” Steve continues.

“We’re,” Steve can see the gears turning in Tony’s mind, his eyes roaming, trying to see, to distinguish “we’re in California, but—”

“Tony,” Steve hushes “there is no one chasing us.” He says quietly.

“Then why were we driving?” Tony blurts “There was, I,” he shakes his head and his hands come to fist in Steve’s shirt “Christ, I don’t know, what’s happening,” he jerks “Steve,” he says, eyes filling with tears “don’t let Ross take me again, please, just, kill me, don’t let—”

Steve shakes his head wildly. “Tony, Ross isn’t here! Ross is dead! How could he be chasing you?”

“I don’t know!” Tony says wildly “But he was! I know he was, I felt, oh God,” he buries his head in Steve’s neck and Steve holds him close, flush against him.

“It’s fine, Tony, you’re just running too hot. You haven’t eaten, we’ve been in this car for days.” He strokes his hair “Just… take some time to cool down.”

‘Drive’ he mouths to Gus in the mirror as Tony shakes in his arms.

 

* * *

They stop at the first motel they see.

“New routine.” Steve says “We drive at night.”

Gus will have to start feeding from the pre-packed blood, but it’s a small price to pay.

Getting out of that car was one of the top ten best life experiences Steve has ever had, in if he only stepped out of one stifling heat into another. At least their room was cool.

“Tony?” He calls from the bathroom “Hey, do you, do you wanna talk?”

Tony lies on the bed, eyes shut.

“You know, that only works if the person can actually sleep.”

A small smile plays on his lips. “I know.” He says softly “Just let me pretend, yeah?”

“Scoot,” Steve pushes him to the side, lies down next to him and takes him under his arm, rests his head on his chest. Tony keeps his eyes closed, breathes deeply.

“What was that today, hmm?” Steve asks, absently playing with his hair.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tony murmurs “I wigged out. It happens. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“You know,” Steve says “you’re allowed to freak out. What he did to you was… you know.”

Tony frowns. “I know.” 

Steve huffs lightly through his nose, smiles. “I was thinking,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to his head. “This cure. If you don’t, I mean, if you changed your mind, I wouldn’t be mad.”

Tony sits up, frowns. “What?” He murmurs, confused.

“If you chose to stay like this. I, I would… _respect_ that decision.”

Tony blinks. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Stop.” Tony orders. “Don’t. I just. I’m hungry.”

Steve smiles, lets Tony straddle his waist.

“We really need some new positions.” Tony breathes against his neck.

“Oh, I can think of a few,” Steve smiles and brings Tony in for a kiss.

“Oh really?” Tony grins against his mouth, eyes going half-lidded.

“Absolutely. There are other parts of my body to get blood from, you know.” And then his eyes blow, with lust, and it’s so sudden that Tony can _smell_ his arousal and Steve just presses on the top of Tony’s head, pushes him down the bed.

“Take off your clothes, at least,” Steve says and Tony grins, strips from his shirt, his pants, underwear kicks them off the bed. And then he’s kneeling between Steve’s legs, back arched and legs spread, ass out, dragging Steve’s pants down his thighs.

He leans in, and Steve takes in the sight of Tony between his legs, spread and presented, and then Tony’s tongue skims the top of his thigh and he moans.

Tony hums appreciatively, takes the skin in his mouth, sucks but doesn’t pierce, and Steve’s head knocks against the bed, his fingers clench in the sheets.

“Christ, Tony,” he chokes “don’t, ah,”

Tony arches, runs a wet tongue down Steve’s sweat slick skin. The air hangs heavy around them, movement pares down to the feel of Tony on his body. 

He bites, and then moans when the first drops of blood roll down the curve of Steve’s thigh, brings his hands up to rest on Steve’s torso.

“Hold them,” he asks, breathy “don’t let me move them, hold me,” and when Steve’s hands tighten on his wrist he licks back down, licks at the spot so Steve shivers, gasps, arches.

“Oh Steve,” Tony breathes “you taste so good, so good, you,” he licks, suckles at the skin, works it over with his tongue, lips, teeth, “I need more of you,” he says softly “just, oh,” and he lunges back down, sucks hard, and Steve’s head crashes against the headboard.

He lets go of Tony’s hands, sits up and pushes them into his head.

“Harder,” he orders “Christ, suck harder.”

Tony complies, working his head over the tender spots, sucking with just a hint of teeth. Another hand moves to milk Steve’s cock and Steve falls back down on the bed, arches, the slick sound of sex filling the air.

Tony leans back to spit on his hands, once, twice, blood intermingling and then starts to work over Steve’s cock, up and down, his massages his balls, flicks the head, and then comes down to suck.

Maybe it’s the thought of having a vampire so near his cock that makes him moan.

Tony works up a steady rhythm, beats him head up and down Steve’s length, takes him all in, gags, but the feel of that saliva on his cock is unlike anything Steve has ever felt in his life. The wet noises of Tony’s mouth on his cock fill the quiet of the room and he feels the headboard crack under his hands, his mouth shaped in an ‘o’, eyes wide as spit dribbles from Tony’s mouth, as he moves back, breathes, and goes back in, takes him deep.

Steve comes, and Tony chokes, he leans back coughing, Steve’s spend rushing back down his chin, coughing it all up.

“Shit, are you okay?” Steve says, sitting up.

Tony makes a ‘one minute’ gesture and coughs, bangs his chest while Steve hovers.

Then: “Yeah,” he grins, voice hoarse and sticky “I’m good.”

“I want to fuck you,” Steve says “Christ, why don’t we have lube?”

“It’s fine,” Tony sighs “it’s fine,” and he lies himself out along the bed. “Can you just…” he grabs Steve’s hand, drags it to his belly. “Play there,” he says, half-lidded “until you make me come. Don’t touch my cock, just make me come.” And he relaxes back onto the bed, lets his arms rest loosely above his head, spreads his legs, lax.

The thought shouldn’t be so hot but it really is.

Steve loves to watch Tony’s reaction as he gently plays with his belly, runs his fingers over the skin in smooth circles, feels the flesh. There are still some scars, raised, bumpy, and Steve wonder if they will ever fade.

Steve brings his fingers up to Tony’s mouth. “Suck,” he says softly, and then brings the saliva-slick fingers down to trace a circle around Tony’s navel.

He moans, twists, bucks up his hips. “Fuck,” he breathes “fuck, I think I’m gonna come.”

“Just from that?” Steve teases and he takes one hand to play with a nipple, flicks the nub, takes the slick saliva and smoothes it onto the sensitive tip. Tony gasps, “Fuck,” he says again, “fuck, Steve,”

“Does that feel good?” Steve asks and Tony nods. 

“Uh huh,” he swallows “yeah, yeah, ah—”

Steve leans down, takes a nipple in his mouth and swirls his tongue. Tony whines, and then he licks a line right down to his belly.

He gasps with pleasure, at he soft drag of Steve’s tongue on his sweet spot, he kicks his legs out, buck, arches, moans with incoherent pleasure.

“Gonna come,” he gasps “gonna come,”

Steve smiles against his skin and lightly bites down, drags the skin up between his teeth and Tony falls apart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, comment on OC's are loved! I really like to hear what you guys think of them and I promise there will be more plot in the next chapter


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, decapitation at the end of this, but it's of a minor, non-important character. 
> 
> Also, if this is filled with more mistakes than usual it's because i've been working on it at ridiculous hours of the morning and words are just kinda blurring together.

And then they’re driving. Again.

This time, it’s dark out. Their lights illuminate the deserted road in front of them and they roll down the windows. Tony isn’t driving anymore, he sits in the passenger seat, smoking, and letting the wind run through his hair.

He feels better.

He also feels like the world’s biggest ass.

He can’t believe how badly he freaked out. He can’t believe he let it risk Steve’s life. That they could of crashed, the car could have rolled, anything.

But he had been so _convinced._ Even now, when he knows, _logically,_ that Ross couldn’t have been chasing him he can’t help but wonder.

And he remembers the _fear,_ goddamn, the _fear,_ he thought they were going to get him back, except this time they would take Gus as well, they would strap Gus down under the lights and shoot the ethanol in his veins and the thought makes him _sick, sick,_ Jesus, 

“Tony?” Steve asks “you okay?”

Tony grunts, drags on his cigarette. Let’s it drop from his hand and roll away onto the asphalt below.

No point thinking about that anymore.

“How long till the border?” He says, voice empty.

“Three hours, give or take one if Steve wants a break.” Gus answers.

“I’m good.” Steve replies.

They drive.

Gus and Steve do not argue. But Tony can feel the tension. He doesn’t particularly want to acknowledge it, so he says:

“When we get there,” he turns “to this temple. What exactly is the game plan? We, what, walk in? Grab the cure, trigger booby traps, get chased out by a massive stone ball and run across a ridiculously rickety bridge?”

“Hmm,” Gus shrugs “maybe?”

“Brilliant.” Tony sighs, looks back out the window.

“I can’t say I _actually_ know,” Gus starts “I know _where_ the temple is, I know how to find it. I know how to enter, Mother told me all the secrets there are to know. But the actual cure? I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Of course we will,” Steve interjects from behind “that is, if there _is_ a cure. Which there might not be. Because you might just be leading us on a wild goose chase.”

“I can assure you that there are no geese involved, Captain.”

“Funny.” Steve retorts.

Oh, yes, here they go, right on schedule.

“I know, Captain, I am.”

“Wasn’t quite what I meant though, was it?”

“Then you should have been more clear, really.”

Steve seethes and Tony sighs, lights another cigarette. Listening to them fight is tedious. And stressful.

“So,” he begins again “how far do you think we’ll be able to take the car?”

Gus shrugs “It’s going to be quite a trek once we manage to get there.”

“Super.” Tony says, taking a deep drag and flicking ash onto the road. “Great.”

“Do you want this cure or not?” Gus says irritably.

“Of course,” Tony snaps, and the thing is, he’s not so sure anymore.

Because he’s been thinking of all the _good_ things he could do with this new body. Living off Steve’s blood, a little bit every night. And then, everything he could achieve with limitless time, endless energy.

And, one day, when Steve starts to age…

No. No, he knows it’s selfish, and he knows it is wrong. And he _does_ want the cure, he wants this over, he wants Steve to be able to make his own choice about whether he wants Tony or not without the influence of this _bond,_ life will be much simpler without it.

And when he’s fixed, he’ll just…

Die alone, probably.

Tony smiles wryly to himself, puffs on his smoke. 

The night air feels cool on his face.

 

* * *

That morning, as the sun begins to rise, they check into a last-stop motel on the edge of the border. It’s surrounded by dusty sand, hard cracked desert floor, and Tony’s just glad that they’re almost half-way there.

“The Captain doesn’t trust me,” Gus says idly, twisting a cigarette round his fingers, lighting up. A drag. “He thinks I’m cheating you.”

“Gus,” Tony says, tracking the first hints of sun “ _I_ think you’re cheating me.”

Gus chuckles. “What makes you so sure? What is it _exactly_ about me that makes you mistrustful.”

Tony blinks. “You slept with me.”

“I sleep with a lot of people.”

Tony holds out his hands “Sorry, let me rephrase: you slept with me, and then you made me drinkyour blood and then you turned me into a monster. So forgive me if I have trust issues.”

Gus eyes him carefully. “Does that bother you?” He says slowly.

“That you turned me into a monster? A bit, actually, yeah.”

“No,” Gus says, taking another drag, letting the smoke fade into the hot air “that I slept with you.”

Tony frowns. “It bothers me that you _used me_.”

“But not that I slept with you?”

“I sleep with a lot of people.” Tony hits back.

Gus chuckles “Mmm, good one. It was a fun night, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Tony says tersely “I wouldn’t remember.”

“Well, I can clarify that it was in fact an excellent night.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony interjects “what is it exactly about my face right now that’s telling you I want to have this conversation.”

Gus lets his eyes slide shut, blows smoke into the air. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Tony snorts, lets himself smile slightly.

Gus sighs. “I want you to trust me, Ant.”

“Try harder.”

“I _am,”_ he says “but trust isn’t exactly my forte.”

“What is?” Tony says, turning “can I ask? Because I don’t know. Hell, I don’t think _you_ know.”

“Nothing pleasant.” Gus says darkly.

Tony rolls his eyes “Oh my _God,_ get _over_ yourself. The more you drop ambiguous hints the more I think you’re just a fucking massive prick, okay?”

“You’ll think I’m more that a prick when you hear.”

“Okay,” Tony says standing “I’m actually going to keep a tally of every time you say something vaguely mysterious and misleading and then, at the end of the week, I’m gonna show it to you and make you realises how blown up your own ego is, okay?”

Gus smiles. “The sun is rising. We should go back inside.”

Tony blinks. “Is that a euphemism?”

 

* * *

That night, before they start driving again Steve and Tony eat in the motel’s dirt incrusted diner.

Or, Steve eats. Tony watches. 

“So I was thinking,” Steve says casually, taking a bite from his burger “we just ditch Gus and make our own way down.”

Tony blinks. “Are you out of your mind?”

Steve sighs, puts his burger down on the crinkled paper, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Look,” he starts “I know he’s your, I don’t know, your ‘maker’, and that you - for reasons I… _can’t_ quite understand - _trust him,_ but I don’t.” His face darkens “I really, really don’t.” He leans closer. “Tony, I’ve met men like him before,” Steve murmurs “and they’re liars and cheaters. He’s sociopathic, Tony, he’ll do anything to get your trust.”

Tony remains blank-faced. “Have you got any definitive proof that he’s a sociopath?”

“He changed you into a vampire. And we still don’t know why.”

“I do. The council choose prospective vampirees and the win them over to their side in order to avoid a power vacuum and build up strength.”

“That’s what _you’ve_ been told. I think that’s a lie. I think he just liked the look of you, Tony.”

Tony lets his eyes slide shut, exhales softly. “Steve, we’re not getting the cure if we don’t have him.”

“We can find it on our own,” Steve counters “it’s not worth having him around.”

“He saved your life!” Tony hisses “How can you say that?”

Steve shakes his head, leans closers, speaks emphatically. “Tony, he _told_ me that the reason he saved me was because it would have _destroyed_ you.”

“So he’s protective of me,” Tony argues “I would be protective of my… you know, when I, _If I,_ if I ever changed a person. I would be protective of them too. It feels natural.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Is this some kind of vampire thing? Why do you trust him?”

“I _don’t._ I don’t trust him at all. I had this discussion with him, I don’t know who he is, or where he’s from, but he’s gonna get me a cure, okay? And that, Steve, I’m not gonna—” he breaks off, looks away. “Don’t tell me it’s not real,” he says quietly “because I need to hope. If there is even a tiny, _tiny,_ chance that Gus is telling the truth then I need to take it.”

Steve waits. Pauses. Thinks.

“The next time,” Steve says “that I think he’s fucked up he’s gonna go.”

“But he _hasn’t_ fucked up yet, has he Steve?”

“He will,” Steve swears “I just know it.”

And then the news report on the TV shifts and Tony’s attention is pulled away.

“Mourners congregated outside the Avenger’s tower today in a public display of gratitude towards the late Tony Stark, who has been missing since a charity gala in July. Some five thousands members of the public appeared to honour his memory after he was officially pronounced dead. A spokesperson for Stark Industries…”

Tony swallows. “So you see,” he says “I don’t think I want to be dead for the rest of my life.”

“… The mourners were not swayed by the recent, very public, call for Captain Steve Rogers arrest after an incident at a high-security federal base. Not much is known about the incident other than…”

Tony winces. “Maybe you should stay dead a little longer.”

 

* * *

That night, around one am, they finally cross the border. It’s stressful, and Tony shaves his goatee while Gus speaks fluent Spanish, charming the guards at the checkpoint. The car manages to convince them that they are just three wealthy American tourists on their way for a stag night but Steve holds his breath the whole way.

Gus, it would seem, has the same ability as Tony when it comes to speaking charmingly. Steve remembers at the beginning, all those months ago when they weren’t sure what Tony had become and when they didn’t know what to do and Tony had looked at him in that certain way, spoke in that certain voice, and Steve had been ready to offer himself up on a platter.

But now their through. Their through, and in three days Gus tells them that they could be in Peru. After that, he warns, it will be on foot to the actual site. The temple, or the cave, or whatever exactly is waiting for them out there in the jungle.

Except.

Except just as they’re about to drive off, a man with a gun by his side and a badge on his chest tells them to wait. Blocks the car from driving forward. He sounds apologetic, but says they have to check some things through.

Steve’s eyes dart to Tony whose lips tighten.

“It’s fine,” Steve tries to soothe “don’t worry, it won’t be Ross.”

“It might be.” He presses back, one hand gripping the edge of his seat, the other running through his hair. “It could be. And then you’re going to jail and I’m going back on the table—”

“No one is going anywhere,” Gus interrupts “could you try not to look so nervous?” He snaps “You’re being too obvious.”

“Sorry,” Tony swallows, blinking, “sorry,” and then he begins to scratch at his beardless face “I’m fucking nervous, okay?” He retorts, eyes frenzied. “What else could it be, what else, maybe it’s just a random check—”

“Ant, in this car you have three individuals with so much strength between them they could crash a wall of titanium one handed. Could you please _relax?”_ Gus drawls, picking at his nails, frowning.

“He’s freaked, you ass,” Steve hisses “I would be too if I were him.”

“But you’re not, are you?” Gus says, rolling his eyes up to meet Steve’s in the rearview mirror “So if you could keep your panties on—”

“Could you not fight?” Tony says desperately, worrying his lip “Just, for fucks sake, could you both not be awful for ten minutes?”

Gus huffs, leans against his window. “I say we make a break for it.”

“They have our registration plate, we won’t get _far.”_ Steve hisses.

“How did they recognise us?” Tony says, trapped in his own little world of frenzy “The papers looked authentic, I use the same guy every time, there’s no way they realised they were fake—”

“If you could refrain from announcing the crime to the whole world that would be greatly appreciated, Ant.” Gus says tersely, lighting a cigarette.

“Fuck, Gus, can we fight them off? We can, right, Steve, you have your shield. I don’t want collateral, but they can’t take us—”

“Tony,” Steve says calmly, trying to still his own nerves “no one is going to take you, we can take whatever they throw at us easily. Relax.”

Tony swallows. “I haven’t eaten, fuck, this was supposed to be over ages ago, I haven’t eaten either.”

Gus gently blows smoke into the sweaty, damp atmosphere of the car. “Take a deep breath, Ant, and count to ten.”

Steve sees red. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? Can’t you see he’s fucking _scared?_ Get your head out your ass you stupid, pathetic little prick.”

“Oh no, Captain America doesn’t like me, whatever shall I do?”

Steve is going to do it. He’s going to kill him. His fingers fumble with his belt, everything coated in a haze of red because _how dare he,_ who the fuck is _he,_ some inconsequential, small little man whose playing at big boy, stringing Tony, _his_ Tony, on, leading him like a donkey with a carrot, manipulating him with smooth words, playing on his desperation for a cure and throwing it back in his face while taunting Steve with it and Steve’s fingers curl around his shield and then—

“Sirs, if you could come with us, please.”

Steve slides back down, lets the haze pass, adrenaline flooding his body.

“Why?” Gus demands “Oh my God, can you believe this ass?” Gus says incredulously, gesturing to Steve and Tony “What the fuck man? We’ve been driving all day, we wanna get to hotel, we haven’t got all day I’m getting _married_ in two days—”

“Get out the car.” The officer says, voice empty “Or we will use force.”

Steve sees Tony blanch.

“Hey, look man,” Gus says, turning on his persuasive voice “you got a family? I bet you could use the extra money, right?” Gus pulls out a wad of $100 bills and holds them out “let us through and this is yours.”

The man wavers, almost ready to reply, when a blast rocks the car.

“Shit!” Tony gasps, and Steve covers his head instinctively with his shield in an attempt to block whatever is standing on their roof.

The officer screams, launches back against the small office behind his back, crashes against the window and then there’s a spear, straight through his chest, splattering Gus’ pale face with blood.

Gus blinks.

Tony kicks his door open, and Steve shouts something, a word of warning but he sees Tony lifted _bodily_ from the ground by his neck and then the thud, crack and then crash as the thing on the roof throws his _though_ the car, leaving a gaping metal hole in the top of the car. 

The roof catches Gus on the shoulder and he gives a cry of pain, something sharp sticking out of the joint. Tony’s face creases in some kind of agony as he arches on the remains of the roof, limbs spread uncomfortably over seats.

“Shit,” he gasps “shit, I think it’s broken—” Tony pants and Steve doesn’t know if he means the car or his back because then the figure jumps though the gap left in the roof, slams on top of Tony as spins and Steve comes face to face with a vampire, teeth bared and bloody, eyes black, inky, soulless pits, and she grins, snaps her teeth and wrenches the top of the passenger seat straight off, throws it up and out.

She grasps Tony by the neck, not even turning around and keeps her empty, terrifying gaze on Steve when another body rocks against the car, really rocks and then they’re tumbling and Steve is crushed against the door while the car rests on it’s side, Gus collapsed on top of him.

“ _Move!”_ Steve hisses because the woman drags Tony up by his neck and throws him to the floor but he’s out of view and _Gus is just fucking lying there_ so he pushes him off, scrambles for his shield and clambers out of the car.

He hears people screaming; he sees the running. Mostly, he focuses on the two vampires, one woman, one man, whose straddling him, the other holding down his hands as they ready a syringe.

Tony cries out, thrashes, and his eyes widen when he sees Steve.

“Shut up,” the man spits “don’t make this difficult.”

“Diana sends her regards,” the other grins, plunging the syringe into Tony’s neck.

Steve throws the shield, although he hasn’t got his gloves and it smashes into the back of the woman’s head, she falls over Tony and the man jumps to his feet, snatches the shield in his hand and throws it right back.

“Don’t worry, Captain, he snarls “you’re next.”

He lunges and, like every vampire, moves so fast that he has Steve pressed against the bottom of the over-turned car. He is _strong,_ why are these creatures so _strong,_ and he’s pressing closer and closer, snarling and smiling and fangs distending, coming for Steve’s neck.

“Gus!” He grunts out, knocking his hips against the bottom of the car “get up, get up you stupid—”

The vampire is knocked backwards, he rolls and rolls and then slide, one hands trailing on the concrete.

“Gus,” he hisses, grins, feral “long time no see.”

“Michael. You working for Diana now?” Gus snorts “What did she promise you? Where’s Sandra — ah, there she is. How are you two?”

“She promised me your head on a platter.”

“Lovely,” Gus drawls, jumping onto the asphalt. They’re alone, now, everybody else has fled, there are deserted cars and a small fire burning somewhere not to far away. The officers will have called for back-up by now and Tony is just lying there, with a broken back and dazed expression, Steve doesn’t think he got a full dosage but if they were to be attacked now they could easily take Tony away.

And Steve had promised him.

Gus drags the metal from his shoulder with a grunt, throws it hard and aims for Michael’s head.

“Missed,” he sneers, dodging fast, too fast, he’s faster than Tony or Gus.

The woman, Sandra, is dragging Tony away, back into a van and that isn’t allowed to happen, that is not how this is going to end.

Gus leaps forwards and gets a solid punch to Michael’s face, knocking him to the ground. Steve throws the shield once more and it hits Sandra in the back of the head again, hard enough this time that she falls to the ground, dazed.

Steve runs, he’s tugging at Tony, dragging him back and Sandra scrabbles at the concrete floor, one hand running down the gash in the back of her head. She snarls and swipes, but it’s uncoordinated, messy, she can’t quite manage it and Steve duck easily, dragging Tony with him.

Sandra stumbles to her feet and slowly lugs after them. Her aim is completely off, and she swings a fist, completely disorientated. But then she snarls and lunges with both hands, trapping Steve’s neck in her grasp, and _squeezes._

His vision funnels; he can’t breathe. Weakly, he’s aware of fire around him, Gus’ grunts as he fights with the man and Tony’s weight against his leg, his hand which fists lightly in his pants leg, twists and tugs as if trying to remind him of his presence. It doesn’t matter though, because he cannot breathe.

He tries bringing his hands up to grapple with her but she just squeezes tighter, crushing his windpipe, and he chokes. He can’t, he doesn’t, she is stronger than him, and everything is tunnelling down, just a line, a bright light far away, and right now it would be so easy to let go, Christ, to just let her keep squeezing.

But it would destroy Tony.

He scrabbles his hands, searching for his shield, but he can’t _find it,_ and a wild panic seizes him, he can’t breathe and he is going to die and Tony will be alone and he can’t—

A thunk, a ripping, cracking sound, and then the pressure on his neck has gone and there is blood on his face.

And Sandra’s head rolls to the floor.

The head screams, although without a voice box it’s just gasping air, it’s features distort, and it is still very much alive.

Steve, blearily, can see Tony, lying on his front, unmoving but bloodied shield in hand and he’s too busy gasping, _breathing,_ to help him although he suspects his back is severely damaged and Gus is still fighting.

Sandra’s headless body just lies, unmoving, some one foot away but the head’s lips just keep moving, and it should be dead, by every right she should be dead so Steve just keeps breathing, stumbles up and hears where Michael _screams,_ ‘Sandra!” and collapses in on himself, falls to his knees and grasps his hair, sobs while Sandra’s lips move, she blinks and then she stills, dead.

Steve is vaguely aware that he just witnessed the breaking of an imprint.

“No time, Captain, got to dash,” Gus grits “pick a car, any car, load Ant up we need to leave _now.”_

Michael sobs and sobs and crumbles as he curls onto the ground, crawls to Sandra’s head, holds it in his lap and rocks, back and forth, back and forth and the Tony whines, grimaces with pain.

“Steve,” he slurs “fuck, my back, fuck, Steve it hurts, I think it’s broken or fractured or—” he cuts off with a noise of pain.

Gus gets their supplies from the overturned car and Steve tries to asks if Tony can walk except nothing comes out, he just coughs, his throat burning and bitter and blood spitting out onto the asphalt.

“Here,” he whispers, voice completely hoarse “this’ll ‘urt.”

Tony grits his teeth against the pain as Steve, jolting, weak, lifts him with his hands under his armpits, drags him. He can’t carry him, he’s too tired, weak, there is no oxygen in his body and he feels drained, completely.

He tries to push Tony gently into the back of an SUV but he screams anyway.

“Can you walk?” He tries, and nothing really comes out but Tony seems to get it.

“It’ll heal,” he gasps “but we need to go, where’s Gus, we need to leave.” His speech is thick and fumbled, whatever drug they gave him has made him slow and Steve turns away, climbs into the passenger seat as Gus runs over.

“Move,” he orders “we’re going,” and he takes the wheel, shunts the rescued supplies onto Steve’s lap and turns the keys in the ignition, stepping on the pedal and driving off into the desert night.

 

* * *

When Steve wakes up, it’s still dark.

“Where are we?” He slurs “What?” But then he remembers that his voice is completely gone and he yawns, rolls in the chair, tries to fall back asleep.

Tony makes a noise of pain in the back.

“Tony?” Steve whispers “You okay? How’re you feelin’?”

Tony blinks languidly in response.

“Don’t bother.” Gus says shortly “He’s stoned out of his mind. Go back to sleep.”

Steve pauses. Gathers his mind.

“You saved us,” he manages “you saved Tony. Thank you.”

“Save your thanks, Captain, you don’t know the half of it yet.”

“Thank you,” Steve insists “thank you, I was wrong not to trust you.”

Gus blanches and his fingers tighten on the wheel. “Don’t say things you’ll regret, Captain.”

Steve continues, regardless. “No,” he announces “no, you were…” he coughs “you are brave, and you’re saving Tony and that, that is worth something, no matter where you come from.”

“Captain, please,” Gus begs, and it’s strange to hear him sound like that, very odd “stop. Don’t say things like that—”

Steve hums, lets his head fall against the glass. He’s not safe here. They’re are vampires chasing them. They need to find a motel. They need to brace Tony’s back and make sure it heals straight. He needs some goddamn _water._

A silence. A complete lull in the conversation.

But something is building. Steve can tell from the way Gus shifts in his seat, the ways his fingers flex on the wheel, the way he breathes, slowly, heavily, as if asleep and presses himself back against the chair.

Complete quiet. 

Steve watches a spider trace it’s way down the window of the car.

And then.

“It was me.” Gus says finally, and his voice is empty, hard, no remorse at all.

“What?” Steve says, raising his head, what was him, he doesn’t underst—

“I said, it was me. I was the one tipped off Ross.” He repeats calmly “I needed you and Tony to trust me. So I staged it. I didn’t think… I didn’t expect them to torture him.”

Steve blinks. What is Gus saying?

“No,” Steve says slowly “it was, it was Diana, Ross _told me_ that it was a woman—”

“Lana was in on it too.”

Silence. 

Deadly, deathly silence.

And then.

“Pull over,” Steve says calmly.

“Captain—”

“Pull over.” 

The car stutters to a halt at the edge of the road.

“Get out.”

“Steve—”

“I won’t repeat myself.” Steve says, and he looks straight ahead, jaw firm, he sits up straight and although his voice is hoarse, adrenaline fills his body.

Gus slowly slinks from the car, stands on the the side of the road. Steve rolls down his window.

“If you ever come near us again,” he says, calm, and ice figure “then I will kill you. No questions asked. No fooling. I am a soldier and you have hurt the one person I love most in the entire world, understand?”

Gus sets his jaw. “You’ll never find it without me.”

Steve shrugs. “Maybe. But I’ve killed monsters, Gus. And I’ve battled gods. And aliens. Killers. A leviathan. I’ve travelled though time, I’ve sat in space and I spent seventy years under pure ice while you fed and fucked every living thing you saw. So I like my chances.” He doesn’t look at him, just stares straight ahead.

“He’ll miss me,” Gus says, narrowing his eyes “don’t be drastic, Captain, he’ll wake up and he’ll want to know—”

“I am going to tell him that you were killed. Or maybe I’ll just tell him you had him tortured so you could prove a point. Whatever is less hurtful for him.”

Steve clambers over the seats, climbs behind the wheel.

“I hope Diana finds you,” Steve says mildly “and she injects you with pure ethanol for the rest of your miserable life. And then we’ll see if anyone comes to rescue you. We’ll see if you think it was worth a cheap trick to gain someone’s trust.”

Gus stares back, eyes stony. 

Steve does not look at him.

The moments hangs in time. In space. 

Tony makes a small noise in his sleep, or his drug-induced delusions, and the spell breaks.

Gus steps back from the window and Steve just drives away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are loved! Seriously! They make my day! Especially on the OC's


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter today just to kind of drag everything together, more actual plot coming up soon

Everything comes back to Tony in stops and starts.

They’re driving, and then there is talking and then he’s kinda just slipping away.

And then they’re driving and there is cool air on his flesh.

And then they’re stopping.

Some point after, it gets bright, too bright, and Tony’s flesh starts to boil. He whines in the back seat, doesn’t want this, can’t take anymore pain and Steve bundles cloth over the exposed places of his skin.

Then, it’s dark again.

When Tony comes to, he’s lying down, and he’s in a bed, and he can’t, for the life of him, figure out how he got there.

“Steve,” he tries to sit up, tries to move _at all_ and then he realises that he can’t move his legs. He whines because there is a pain in his lower back that’s not going away and it spikes with every shift, like someone is digging a knife into his flesh and just twisting it there.

He is hungry. He is so hungry.

“Steve,” he calls again, because he can’t move, and he hasn’t eaten, he’s weak, and if he was to be attacked right now he would be defenceless, open, like a wounded animal and that’s not acceptable, it’s not, he can’t—

“Gus?” He cries, Gus, Steve, anyone, he’s in pain and he’s hungry and he doesn’t know where they’ve gone.

Oh God, what if they were taken?

Tony reaches down and wrenches the guard from his belly, gasps in pain and cries out when he lifts his hips to slide it off. He tugs up his shirt, runs his hand over the spot, tries to recreate the calming effect, hopes it will reduce the pain and maybe send him back down into that drug-induced state he came from.

But it doesn’t work. He wails with the pain “Steve!” and “Gus!” but no one comes.

Gaining traction, Tony rolls off the bed. He bites his lip, grunts at the pain of his back being jarred so severely but it can’t be helped, he’ll have to deal with it. He gasps, flips onto his belly, fingers digging into the dirt carpet and drags himself forward. 

He can see the vials and syringes drugs on the dresser and he just needs to reach them, just needs to get that far and then he can drop away.

But it’s hard, his legs won’t move and although he’s still relatively strong he has to worm his way across the floor, twisting, panting in agony until he lines himself up with the wooden dresser.

He tries to reach up with a hand but can’t quite manage it so he rolls himself against the wood, again, again, thunks, tries to lodge the syringes loose and they fall onto his belly.

He groans, lifts his head, sits up slightly and fumbles with the vials, searches for the coffee because he doesn’t want to accidentally inject himself with something else, that could go very badly for him.

He depresses it into a vein in his arm and slumps, the pain fading but everything going away too, and he lies there on the dirty carpet unable to move, pupils expanding and empty and wonders, through an artificial calm, where is Steve and where is Gus.

He hopes they’re not fighting again.

 

* * *

 

Steve finds Tony slumped on the ground, on the dirty floor, shuddering, eyes still open but dazed.

“Shit,” he says, dropping his paper bags full of groceries onto the bed “shit, Tony, are you alright, here, shit, I’m sorry, fuck I didn’t think you would wake up, here—”

Tony’s eyes flutter and he frowns, one hand loosely fisting in the cotton of Steve’s shirt. His pupils have blown, wide and spaced, and then they keep growing, enveloping his eyes until completely dark, black, empty and inky and he weakly snaps his teeth, snarls at the back of his throat.

Steve recoils, but slides one hand gently under his legs, the other under his shoulders and lifts. Tony whines, presses his head against his chest, and Steve feels the light scrape of teeth as Tony tries to find purchase to bite.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs “hold on, lie down,” and he places Tony back on the bed.

He doesn’t know how to fix this. He thinks, he _hopes,_ that natural healing will fix Tony’s back but he can’t be sure. And he left the resident vampire expert on the side of the road.

He wonders if Gus got caught in the sun.

He hopes so.

He lets Tony drink from his wrist. The pleasure is less, like this, without the weight of his body, without the lapping of his tongue. He just sucks, greedy, until Steve gently slips his wrist away and Tony sighs contentedly.

He wraps his wrist in bindings then sits on the edge of the bed, watching Tony’s face, his reactions. Tony tracks him, but slowly, and Steve thinks the low coffee dosage has taken the edge off the pain but not quite sent him to sleep.

“Gus,” he slurs “is he eating?”

Steve purses his lips. Because he could tell Tony the truth. That Gus betrayed him. Or, he could say he was dead. He could lie to Tony now, save him the heartbreak later.

“Gus is—” And Steve had the lie ready, it had been poised on the tip of his tongue, but now he can’t say it, and he lets it slide.

He clears his throat, still hoarse from where he’d been throttled. “Gus isn’t here, now, Tony. Something happened and he won’t be travelling with us anymore.”

Tony eyes widen. “Is he…” he lowers his voice, whispers “is he dead?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. It’s not quite lying if he doesn’t say the words.

Tony’s bottom lip quivers. “Is he, are you sure?"

“Tony—”

“We should go back. We should go back, he might not be—”

“Tony,” Steve soothes “you’re hurt, you’re not going anywhere for a while.”

Tony shakes his head, confused, fumbled “No, Steve, you don’t understand,” he struggles to sit up, to press against Steve, push him away “I can’t— he’s my _maker,_ we need to find him—”

Steve gently smoothes Tony’s hair off of his head and his face crumples.

“Shit, Steve,” he gasps “shit, he’s dead, he’s _dead,_ I,” his breath hitches, he turns his cheek into the pillow, squeezes his eyes shut tight “that’s not fair,” he whimpers “it’s not fair, fuck, why does it _hurt_ so much why does it feel like,” he bites his lip, a sob rumbles from his lips “I feel _wrong,_ my heart hurts, why, I didn’t like him _that much_ but, God—”

“He might not be dead,” Steve blurts, because he can’t bear to have this hurt Tony, he can’t “he might still be alive, I didn’t, we had to run.”

“I remember,” Tony nods, dully “I kinda remember. I don’t remember seeing him, though, what—” Tony cries out, suddenly, arches off the bed, and then his legs are kicking.

“Shit,” he gasps “shit, I can feel my legs, what the fuck—”

“Tony,” Steve says “Tony, it’s time to sleep, come on, let the coffee take you under.”

“Check for him?” Tony pants “Please, while I’m sleeping, just, maybe he’s still out there.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it. “I thought you didn’t want to be alone.” He says quietly.

Tony winces, his eyes slide shut and he forces them open. “Yeah, but I’ll be okay,” a grimace “I’ll manage, I can, I’ll be asleep, if there’s even a chance you can find him—” he’s working himself up again, into a frenzy and Steve softly strokes his shoulder.

“Okay,” he murmurs “sure, Tony, I’ll check for him.”

Tony nods, eyes wide but starting to drift and Steve doesn’t take his hand from his shoulder until he falls asleep.

Steve isn’t going to search for Gus.

 

* * *

Diana smiles down from her throne.

Michael is a waster, always has been. He is the last person Diana would have chosen to change but he had once shown promise. 

She always has had the worst children.

Right now, he is sobbing. Ugly, loud noises, that make Diana want to push his head into the fire.

“What _happened,”_ she asks for the final time “did you or did you not get Stark?”

He shakes his head, whimpers, curls over himself and Diana rolls her eyes. The other one, what had her name been, _Sandra,_ his imprint. She must be dead. A shame, she always did show more initiative than her son.

“He _killed_ her,” Michael snarls between sobs “Stark, he _ripped off her head,_ I’m going to kill him, I’m going to kill that meat sack he carries with him, _his_ imprint, I’m going to—”

“Hmm,” Diana says lazily, twirling a knife around her fingers “no doubt.” She is getting hungry, and she wants this over.

“He’s wounded,” Michael manages “Sandy… Sandra broke his back. He won’t be moving anywhere soon, if you let me go now I can get him—”

“You?!” Diana laughs, high and cruel and slams her knife into the table “You couldn’t take down a human and _Gus_ on your own, what makes you think you can handle Stark?”

“He’s injured,” Michael persists “if you attack now he won’t be able to do anything, his human, the Captain, won’t be able to take down more than one of us without his help—”

“What about Gus?” Diana breaks in “Was he injured too?”

Michael swallows. “I don’t know. I saw him leave with them, I don’t—”

Diana thinks. Gus is an idiot, yes, but strong. Stronger than most, a callback to his army days. Michael is a fool, but thirsts for revenge. Losing him would be no great loss, and if there is chance he could actually succeed…

“Michael,” Diana says sanctimoniously from her dais “if you bring me Gus, then I swear by the elders that you will be the one to kill Stark’s beloved, the exact way he killed yours.”

Michael’s head snaps up. “Yes,” he hisses “ _yes.”_

Diana smiles. “Go then, my child. Do not return unless you have news.” Diana picks up her knife. “And Michael? Make sure you keep this between you and me. Don’t let anyone else know Gus is coming home. Especially not Mother.”

Without Gus to protect them, an attack on the Captain and Stark would be easy, especially in Stark’s weakened state. And all before the summer solstice, at which point there will be no opposition, she will reign supreme. She must stop Stark from reaching the cure, it wouldn’t do to have her toy become so easily breakable.

She doesn’t _really_ mean to have Michael kill the Captain; she will do that, with her own hands. Painfully. Michael will be one of the first to go when she purges the unfaithful from her reign.

But now she is hungry. 

She imagines the body under her knife is Stark.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooOOOOOH so plot happens.
> 
> Also, I have just gotten ridiculously attached to Gus. Like, he's a complete asshole, and a little bit twisted, but still. Who isn't.

Gus had stood at the side of the road for a long time.

A stupidly long time, actually, because soon enough the sun begun to rise.

He always had had a flair for the dramatic. It hadn’t served him well in his past life, and it might actually kill him in this one.

After so many years in this body, so many years as a vampire, Gus was still surprised to find that the sun could burn.

What he would give to be able to sit in the sun one last time.

Now, though, he is running. Because there are people on his trail. And he is an idiot, a complete idiot, because what the fuck was he thinking, telling Steve the truth as if he doesn’t know exactly what sort of man the Captain is, exactly what he would have done with that information. He’s lucky his head is still sitting on his shoulders and not burning in the sun somewhere on a dusty road, gaping like a fish.

The town he’s hiding in is old, small, run-down businesses and empty shop fronts litter the main street. He ducks into an alleyway, shadows crawling on the darkened bricks, pauses and thinks.

It’s Diana. Without a doubt, he knows Diana has sent men to get him.

Michael.

That fucking ass. He deserves everything that’s coming. Diana is going to kill him soon, Gus knows, because he knows Diana, knows her well. Ironically, it’s this sense of knowledge that informs him that, when he’s caught, because he will be caught, he’s going to be next on her list.

He counts one, two, three, _four,_ there are four vampires out there, trailing him. Four, and he’s let himself get pushed into an alley with no where to go.

_Think Gus,_ he tells himself _think._

He knows, without a doubt, that after him Diana will be going for Tony. And that, that is unacceptable. He will not risk Ant’s life, not anymore. 

(He honestly didn’t think they would torture him.)

Gus had had a son once, a long time ago.

Not that it matters now. Gus shakes the thoughts from his head. After they deliver him to Diana, they will go after his _child,_ and he cannot let that happen. His greatest chance, now, is to take Diana down personally.

Which he will not have a chance to do. Because Diana won’t be so stupid as to leave the two of them alone.

But he can play her. He’s manipulative, always has been, it’s kept him alive for as long as he can remember, since he was a boy, really. And he can work her over, she will hear what she wants to, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to spin her round, shut her down, divert her from the Captain and Ant.

“Gus,” somebody sings from behind “Gus, we _found_ you.”

Gus never really did have any friends.

“Yes,” he drawls, turning slowly “yes, you did. Congratulations.”

Somebody snickers. “No use being sarcastic now, Gussy. Your time is up.”

“Apparently so.” He says nonchalantly, lighting a cigarette. “What will it be, boys? You gonna kill me? Or am I going to the head bitch herself?”

Michael steps into the light. “You can’t say that anymore, _Gus._ Mother’s in charge, _my_ mother. You’re on your way out.”

Gus drags on the smoke. “No doubt. How _is_ Diana these days? How’s the face? Still looking pretty?”

Michael hisses and one of the other vampires to his side stalls him with a hand on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Gus,” he says sweetly “by the time she’s done with you, you won’t be looking pretty too.”

More sniggers from the men as they stalk closer. Gus rolls his eyes. 

“Beautiful,” he says, dully “you’re a true poet.”

“God,” someone snaps “do you ever _shut up?”_

“Only when I’m dead.” He counters, although he probably should have said something else. Don’t want to tempt fate.

“No worries,” someone says “it won’t be long now.”

More laughs, and Gus grinds the cigarette into his forearm, sighs. There’s a line, there. Dots, one after the other, up his forearm. He always stubs his cigarettes in the same place, goes over the scars so they never fade. It helps keep him grounded.

“Can we make this quick?” He drawls “I have some business to attend to.”

It’s better this way, he thinks before he’s dosed to the gills with coffee, at least this way there’s a chance to save Ant.

Of course, his hindbrain adds, if you hadn’t changed him in the first place, this never would have happened.

* * *

 

 

“Gentle, Tony, careful. You’re still healing.”

“No shit.” Tony spits.

It had been three days since the attack at the border and for three days Tony and Steve had been left defenceless in their rented room. The feds wanted Steve, the Government wanted Tony, and they most likely had a pack of feral rampaging vampires at their back thirsting for revenge.

They really could not afford to lose three days.

“Careful, stand _carefully_ Tony, that’s it.”

Tony’s first steps were shuddered but strong. The damage that had been healed left him able to walk just like he used to, although more wary of what injuries could cause him to break. He kept the guard tight around his belly; he can’t die now. Not when they’re so close.

Not when Gus died to get them here.

“We’ll pack and leave tonight,” Steve murmurs “hopefully we’ll make it to—”

“No,” Tony shakes his head “Steve, we’re not going to make it anywhere in the next week. There’s no way we’ll meet the deadline.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve persists “Diana is after us _now,_ that won’t change just because she comes into power—”

“Yes,” Tony says shortly “it will. Because then she will be able to order all the vampires she wants. We nearly got taken down by _two,_ Steve, when there were three of us. I broke my back, we lost,” he swallows, tight “we lost Gus. No.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Steve says, calmly. He won’t snap at Tony, refuses to. He has to put himself in Tony’s shoes, see what he’s seeing. And it wouldn’t be fair to get angry at him, not after what happened.

Tony looks unsure. “I say we fly.”

Steve blinks. “No.”

“Steve—”

“Tony, we are being hunted.” Steve rubs a hand through his hair “What happens if a vampire gets on the plane with us?”

“That won’t happen.” Tony insists “You know it won’t. Right now, we have a window of opportunity. They’re expecting to be moving on foot, they won’t expect us to take a plane—”

Which is true. But.

“You get hungry, you take down the person next to you,” Tony moves to protest and Steve shuts him down “the light from the windows will burn you when they demand you keep the shutters up, we’ll be trapped for hours, we’re _bound_ to be spotted, airports have so much security that they’d have their cameras trained on us in _seconds_ and the a swat team roping down ten minutes later. Tony, we _can’t.”_

“If we don’t try,” Tony snaps “then we’re screwed anyway, Steve. Diana will find us, and then she will take you, take _me,_ and kill us. And then what happens? Nothing, because we’re fucking dead. This way, and hear me out, this way when - _if -_ we’re taken, it’s in an open space, people will be able to see us go quietly. It cuts our travel time by like, 90% or something. Steve, please, we’re fucked up the ass either way—”

“We could die, though.” Steve says quietly “If we drive there’s a chance—”

“I know.” Tony says softly. “You want to prolong it, draw out the inevitable. But Steve? Whatever happens now…”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles morosely. “We’re on our own.”

Because they can’t drag the Avengers down with them. That is not an option.

Tony sits on the bed, shuts his eyes, sags. “I’m sorry I had to do this to you.” He murmurs “I’m sorry I ruined your life.”

Steve blinks. “Stop. Stop that, stop _saying_ that, as if you’re at fault, you’re _not._ ”

Tony smiles weakly. “Steve, if I hadn’t dragged you down with me this wouldn’t have happened. End of.”

“If Gus,” he spits the name “hadn’t _changed_ you, this never would have happened. This isn’t your fault,” and he strides to the bed, takes Tony’s hands in his “please, please stop saying that it is.”

Tony shakes his head, gasps, and he tries to laugh but it sounds more like a sob. “I love you, Steve.” He whispers “Fuck, I do. And I don’t want, I don’t think I could bear it if—”

“Shh,” Steve soothes, and he drags one hand along Tony’s cheek “please, shh. I love you, Tony, I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ve faced worse than this, much worse, this is a walk in the park, right?”

Tony gives a strained smile but he looks away. “You should go home,” he says “go back to the Avengers. Get yourself out of the mess I landed you in, people will listen, you’re Captain America.Run while you still have the chance.”

“Tony,” Steve says, voice soft, it curls down Tony’s spine, forces him to look up. “Tony, listen to me. I would never leave you,” and his voice is so hushed, it’s the only thing Tony can hear “I _love_ you, how many times do I have to say it before you believe me?”

Tony lets his head fall forward, into the crook of Steve’s neck. “Always,” he murmurs.

Steve brings one hand up to cup the back of his neck, presses feather light kisses onto the top of his head. This could be it, he realises.

This could be one of their last moments together.

Gently, he tugs Tony back, softly kisses the supple skin of lips, holds his head lightly in his hands and feels his hot breath on his flesh. 

Their foreheads meet, their brows furrowed, Steve taking Tony’s hand in his, tightening until their hands are pressed to his lips, and then to his heart. Steve wishes he could do so much more, there’s so much he never got to experience with Tony, he wanted to make love to him, to take him apart, but now there isn’t time and they could be dead in the morning.

“We’ll fly,” he whispers “you’re right. Either way… flying gives us a better chance.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony whispers. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I want us to have a chance.”

Steve nods, his brow never leaving Tony’s. “I know,” he says softly “I wanted us to have a future.”

Steve imagines waking up next to Tony. Drinking coffee next to him as the sun streams down over both of them. Walking hand in hand through the park, through museums, holding him when the nightmares come, soothing him when he cries. He imagines all the drawings he never got to draw, the experiences they might never get to have.

He hates Diana, in that moment, for taking this away from them. He hates Gus, too. Because this is Gus’ fault, all of it. He took Tony from him the minute he turned him into a vampire, the second he brought him onto Diana’s radar. He told Ross where to find him, how to torture him, he had him damaged so badly that even now Tony fears what that one man could do to him. He had Steve incriminated so that they can’t show their faces in public. He took Steve’s future from him.

“If we survive,” Steve says, and it is an ‘if’ now, “then I’m going to take you on a proper date.”

Tony snorts. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, holding their hands to his head “you would be the first course.”

“Not a restaurant,” Steve promises “something special. A proper date, somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” And Tony’s voice cracks “Well, I don’t know about that.”

It’s true, and it’s both funny and heart-breaking because they’re Avengers: when will they ever be truly safe?

“Yes,” Steve continues “sometime, when this has all blown over, I swear.”

“A picnic blanket under the stars?” Tony smiles.

“Maybe,” Steve grins “or we could go fishing. Go to a museum. Anything. Everything. We’ll have plenty of time.”

“If you still want me,” Tony murmurs.

“Why is it you assume that I’ll be the one leaving you?”

Tony blinks, frowns. “Do you think _I’m_ leaving you?”

“No. I think we’re going to stay _together,_ Tony. Both of us. No one is going to leave, we’re going to grow old together.”

Tony’s mouth opens, then shuts. He looks down. “Wow,” he says “that…” he looks up, smiles “that sounds nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Steve says, smoothing Tony’s hair back from his head.

They sit there, in silence, for a while. They take each other in.

“I’ll see if maybe I can break out a few favours,” Tony says, finally.

Steve frowns. “What?”

 

* * *

“Ms Potts,” Steve says, stepping onto the air-conditioned interior of Tony’s jet.

“Pepper,” Tony says, following him in, hood up, glasses on, protection from the sun.

Pepper blinks. She stares. Then she pulls Tony in for a hug.

“Oh my God,” she says, in a rush “oh my God, I thought you were dead, I thought you were _dead,_ I arranged your funeral.” Her eyes tear up and she laughs, presses her head into Tony’s neck and squeezes. 

“Oh God,” she says again, taking off his glasses, pushing down the hood “you weren’t joking, were you? About the vampire thing, you look, well, you look great.”

And then she hugs him again, _hard,_ rocks him to and fro and Tony grins, squeezes back.

“I missed you, Pep.”

Pepper leans back, wipes one eye delicately. “Yes, well,” she clears her throat “one must, we must remain professional about such things.” 

And then she slaps him round the face.

“You fucking _asshole,”_ she spits “you’ve been gone for _eight months,_ I thought you were _dead,_ you didn’t leave a _message,_ not even a _note,_ I thought, Christ, do you have _any idea_ what that’s like? What is wrong with you?” She says, voice high. She turns to Steve “What is _wrong_ with him?”

Steve sighs, takes a seat by the window, stretches out his feet. “You telling me?” He says. “Don’t even get me started.”

Tony sighs. “I’m, look, it was necessary, okay? I have some, there are some _people_ after me with a specific interest in killing the people I love. I was right, by the way, to hide, so don’t tell me otherwise.” He takes a seat opposite Steve, stretches.

Pepper blinks. “God, of course you believe that,” she sighs, rubs her eyes “Steve, talk some sense into him.”

“Been there, done that,” Steve shakes his head “it’s like talking to a brick wall.” He adds conspiratorially.

“Uh,” Tony blinks “no. No, you’re not doing this. We’re not having this conversation now.”

“Mmm,” Pepper says, taking a seat at their round table “you never want to have this conversation.”

Tony smirks. 

“I need you to tell me what happened.” She says, seriously “I need to know where we stand. Because Steve, there’s a _warrant_ out for your arrest—”

“I’m sorry we’re asking you to do this,” he blurts.

“— And I don’t know what for. What _happened?_ ”

Tony looks at Steve. Steve looks at Tony.

“It’s a long story,” Tony admits, scratching the back of his head.

“We were captured,” Steve says simply “by General Ross.”

Pepper’s eyes harden. “What did he want.”

“He had heard, from a… from an anonymous tip-off,” Steve breaks off “most like one of the rogues vampires, that Tony had been changed. He told Ross his weaknesses, how to take him down. That he was strong, now.”

“And?”

Steve looks uneasily at Tony, who looks out the window, helpfully UV-resistant.

“And they took both of us, but they experimented on Tony.”

“It’s fine,” Tony interrupts as Peppers hands shoot to cover her mouth “it’s fine, Steve makes it sound worse than it is. It was only a few days, we were rescued, I killed Ross. It’s fine.”

Pepper shakes her head, horrified. “No, Tony,” she says “Ross isn’t dead.”

Tony blinks. “What?” He says, and he sounds helpless.

Pepper shakes her head again. “Ross isn’t dead, I don’t, I’m sorry. He was sick, that’s what we all heard, but he’s back, now. They said he was wounded in the attack, that _Steve_ shot him, not that—”

“Not that I sucked him dry.” Tony says, voice empty. He looks up. “Steve,” he hisses “Steve, what if—”

“Hey,” Steve says softly, hand coming up to cover Tony’s “you’re fine. Look at us, we’re up in the air, no one knows we’re here. We’ve cut the journey in two, halved out time, we’re going straight to Peru and we’re not even flying to a commercial airport, it will be _fine._ We’re safe.”

If Pepper is put off by the obvious display of affection she doesn’t say, just lets it happen, eyes distant.

“I know,” Tony says quickly “I know that, sorry. I just,” he shakes his head “fuck, Steve, I thought we’d handled that, I thought—”

“Don’t worry about Ross,” Pepper intones from her chair “worry about this cure. You didn’t, you were pretty brief on the phone. Are you sure,” Pepper sighs “look, are you sure it’s real?”

Tony shuts his eyes, exhales. “We had a, well, a _guide,_ I guess. But he’s dead now, so, uh.” Tony clears his throat “I mean, honestly? We’re just hoping for the best.”

“We need to get the cure before the summer solstice or the council will stop Tony from changing back,” Steve explains “there’s a woman, Diana, who will be coming into power. She hates us,” he says, darkly “and she hates Tony more. She’ll throw the full weight of the council behind her when she comes into power if it means shutting us down."

Pepper blinks. “Wait, what, a _council?_ How many more of you are there?”

Tony squints, runs a hand through his hair. “Tell you what,” he sighs “let me start from the beginning.”

 

* * *

Gus is dragged to Diana’s chambers.

It’s undignified; he doesn’t care.

“Oh Gus,” she purrs “oh, Gus, you do not know how long I have waited for this day.”

Gus is woozy, blurred and slow from the drug in his system. He blinks.

“I c’n hazard ah’ guess,” he slurs, slumping into the carpet.

Diana sighs, her melted face pouting. “Oh, poor Gus is tired.” She giggles, and it’s the furthest thing from seductive there is. “No quick comment? Nothing to say?” She preens, sips from her goblet. “Isn’t this marvellous?”

“Where’s M’ther?” He manages from his place on the floor, face smushed against the carpet, drooling.

“Hmm? Mother? Oh, she’s, well, how do I put this delicately? I killed her.”

Gus wails. His maker. God, his _maker,_ gone, snuffed out. She’s lying, fuck, she must be—

“No,” she drawls, goblet in hand “I found her difficult. The council did, too. As of this morning, she is officially just a head without a body,” Diana takes a sip, smacks her lips “she never did tell anyone where her sweet spot was. Not that it matters, obviously, dead is dead.”

“You _bitch,”_ Gus manages “you, you _bitch,_  you couldn't wait a _week--_.”

Diana rolls her eyes. “Oh, suck it up, Gus. It’s not like she cared for you.”

Silence.

Diana grins. “Yes, that’s right, Gus. She was with me, you know. The whole time. I expect she didn’t actually think that I would go against her in the end, but,” Diana shrugs “she was old.”

Diana crouches by Gus’ head, strokes a hand through his hair. “You’re still so pretty,” she sighs distractedly “it’s not fair, really.”

“You’re lying,” Gus slurs “that’s not true.”

Diana lets his head fall back onto the carpet with a thunk. “Gus, Mother was with me the whole time. You were just too blind to see it.” She stands, makes her way to the table and pours herself more blood. “That’s why she sent you on that wild goose chase, you know.” Another sip. “You know, for the cure?” Diana laughs, high and cruel.

“There never was one. She just didn’t want to kill you. You were her only child, after all. I expect you would be hard pressed to kill your Tony if you had too.” Diana sighs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “She was hoping that the Captain would take care of you for her. Or maybe you would fall into that godforsaken temple, let the elders have their way with you. Not that it matters, now.” She sits back down.

“Stark is hunting, right now, for a cure that does not exist. And when he reaches that temple, we will be waiting. Me, you, some others. And we will bring him back here. And then do you know what I’m going to do?”

Diana grins, and it’s sadistic, and cruel, and Gus, Gus is so tired, he’s so _empty,_ he doesn’t know what to think, because he was betrayed by _Mother,_ by his _maker,_ and the ache is bone deep, he doesn’t know what hurts more, that she betrayed him or that she’s dead, and he realises with a jolt that _this is what he did to Tony,_ he had him _hurt_ and that was all on him, Christ, he’s a monster.

But not as a depraved as Diana. Not yet.

“I’m going to kill you. Slowly. Intimately. Because I hate you and because,” another long drink “as you scream, and plead, and beg for death, Stark will be watching.”

Gus swallows. He is hungry.

“And then, I’m going to kill the Captain. How do you think Stark will feel then, hmm? When I kill his beloved. How would you feel if I killed your… what was her name? I can’t remember. If I killed your imprint?”

No. No. No.

Diana chuckles. “Yes, yes, it will be glorious, Gus, just you wait. Maybe I should change the order, maybe I should kill the Captain first, make you watch _Stark_ fall apart and then really finish _him_ when I kill you. I’ll torture him too, obviously. Oh, Gus, you should see my design,” and now Diana has a mad sparkle to her eye “it’s magnificent. My greatest work yet.”

Gus looks up. “You’re a monster.” He spits “You disgust me.”

Diana sighs. “That doesn’t mean much coming from Hitler’s poster boy.” She says, casually grinding his fingers into the carpet.

Gus cuts back on a scream. “I… _wasn’t.”_ He grits out.

“Hmm,” Diana says, not really listening. “What did they call you? What was your name? Something beginning with ‘G’”

“Gustav,” he whispers “my name was Gustav.”

“Ah yes, that was it,” she says, crushing his fingers entirely. “ _Gustav._ It has a nice ring to it, not quite as grand as Augustus though.”

Gus closes his eyes, lets his head rest against the carpet, tries to shut away the pain. He doesn’t want to think about that.

Although, increasingly, his thoughts turn to his home.

“Just you wait, _Gustav,_ just you wait. I have it all planned out. I would say it’s shame that you won’t be there to witness it but,” she sighs “it’s not, really.”

Gus has failed, then. He has failed, and in the process he has managed to destroy the lives of not only Tony Stark but Steve Rogers as well.

There are two monsters in the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I love comments about how you think Gus and Diana are playing out! I adore every comment I get, they literally make my day.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, first of all a massive thank you if you're still reading this! Also, thanks to EVERYONE who has commented, kudosed, etc, you are the reason I'm still writing it!
> 
> In this chapter we kinda reach the turning point in the plot so
> 
> You might want to watch out torture in this one. There's not buckets of blood, but still. Just in case.

Pepper sighs. “Okay,” she says, her head resting delicately on one hand “okay, I see.”

“You understand, right?” Tony says “You understand why I have to get this cure. You see why we have to do it this way.”

“I see it,” she says “I just—” she breaks off, looks away. “Why is it always _you?”_ She says, disbelievingly “Christ, Tony, if it’s not terrorism it’s alien invasions and if not that then vampirism, it’s, God, it’s not fair.”

Tony swallows. “No,” he says “but it could have been anyone.”

“No,” Steve says firmly “it really couldn’t. Gus chose you for a reason.”

Tony shakes his head. “No he didn’t,” he says softly “Gus chose me because, and I know Gus, he chose me because he likes… pretty things. And I was rich, and powerful, and Gus wanted to own a bit of that.” 

“That’s doesn’t excuse it,” Pepper says, voice monotone.

“That’s true,” Tony says “it doesn’t. But I’ve forgave him. So should you.” He says, looking directly at Steve.

Steve crosses his arms, looks away. “How long till we land?”

Pepper shrugs “fifteen minutes?”

“In which case, I’m going toilet. Get ready, Tony.”

Tony smiles at him, finger tips meeting in a pyramid on his chest. “Don’t worry honeybee, there’s some things I need to discuss with Pepper.”

Steve leaves, and the smile drops.

 

* * *

“Don’t,” Gus spits “fuck, _don’t—”_ the brand meets the centre of his chest anyway.

He screams, doesn’t bother holding back, because what’s the point? Pride only means so much when you’ll be dead in a week.

Diana giggles, she’s always giggling, if Gus had the time or energy to speak he’d tell her to stop and maybe visit a plastic surgeon but his voice has been ripped from him with brutal screams and pain and he doesn’t really care that much anyway.

“This is fun, Gustav? Isn’t it? Isn’t this fun?” She smiles, this time reaching for a knife “I always wanted to spend some _quality_ time with you, and now we finally get the chance to bond.”

She doesn’t waste time pre-ambling, she just slides the knife straight between his ribs.

Gus jolts in the chains keeping him slumped against the wall, hot, coppery liquid falling from behind his mouth.

“Beautiful,” she sighs “so pretty, you look so pretty like this.”

She kisses him with his blood still fresh on his lips.

One hand wrapped around his jaw, holding up his head. The chains crack as he pulls feebly in an attempt to get away.

She sighs against him, samples the sweat on his neck. “It’s not fair,” she pouts “that you are still so pretty.”

Gus would protest, or retort, or do anything but right now he’s open, like a gaping wound, all his flaws out to see and he can’t quite manage it.

“Still so pretty,” she hums again “let’s see what we can do about that.”

 

* * *

The plane touches down in a small, faded airport, strictly military unless you’re Pepper Potts and you can pay people not to ask questions.

“You all set?” She says, hands folded, smile plastered on her face.

Steve grins and Tony forces a smile, shucks his bag onto his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, voice breathy “100%. Let’s do this.”

Pepper smiles again, but here face crumples. “Oh, Tony,” she says, and she drags him in for one last hug “please don’t die. Please. I do love you, you know.”

Tony smiles softly, lets his eyes fall shut when she draws away and cups one cheek with a small, pale hand. “I know,” he murmurs, sighs “it’s a dangerous thing to do.”

“If you die,” she says, putting on a brave face “I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you,” she sniffs, wipes one eye. “I mean it, Tony, don’t you, don’t dare—” and she shakes her head, fresh tears roll down her cheeks and Tony holds her close.

“I won’t die.” He promises, murmuring into her hair. “I’ve got, like, a million lives, Pep, I’ll survive this."

“Yeah,” she says, pulling back, nodding, face blotchy. “Yeah, I know.” She folds her hands back onto her lap. “Good luck,” she says with a smile “I’ve arranged for a convoy to be waiting for you outside.”

Tony’s face turns pained. “Steve,” he says “I need to scout, meet me by the car,” he places his glasses over his face even though it’s dark outside “give me five minutes, at least, this place could be crawling with vamps.” He tugs up his hood “If I get into trouble, you take the plane and you fly Pepper out, agreed?”

Steve makes to protest but Tony stares him down. “ _Agreed?_ Knock the pilot out and take control. You’re here by choice, I’m not risking her.” Tony exhales, runs a hand through his hair, quickly, jumps from foot to foot. 

“Okay,” he says “okay, see you later.”

He runs through the door, down the stairs and into the lot. Steve watches him until he turns to shadow and the the door slides closed.

“Take us back up, Jerry.”

Steve jerks. “What?”

“You heard me.” Pepper says, moving to stand by the window. “Let’s move.”

“Pepper,” Steve takes her hand, pulls her back “Pepper, what are you doing, Tony isn’t back yet, we can’t—”

“I know, Steve,” she says, voice soft, and she turns, looks him in the eye “you’re not going with him. I owe Tony that, at least.”

Steve blinks. “No,” he says, voice lost, “no, stop,” he moves to the pilot’s entrance, tugs on the door, bangs, “stop this plane!” he shouts “stop it!”

He turns back to Pepper “How dare you,” he grits “how dare you, he’s going to die, he’s going to fucking _die,_ how could you let that happen—”

“Maybe,” Pepper says, drying her eyes and taking a seat “but you’re not going to die too. Tony has made sure of that.”

“No,” he growls, and he smashes his fists into the exit again and again and again “open it, _open it,_ Pepper, _please,_ he’s going to die!” Steve’s voice is desperate, his bangs his fists until dents appear in the metal.

“This plane isn’t going to stop,” Pepper says “if you damage that door any further then we’ll fall out the sky. Stop, Steve.”

Steve feels tears sting his eyes. He can’t believe it, this is _betrayal,_ this is death, Tony is going out there without him and he might _die_ and the last thing he said was ‘see you later,’ and Tony _planned this,_ he planned to make the sacrifice play, he always does this, always, and Steve hates it, hates _him,_ he hates Tony Stark for doing this.

He hates Tony Stark for having the audacity to leave him alone.

“Pepper,” he says again “ _please._ He will _die,_ and I won’t be able to stop it, just let me out and there’s a chance he might survive, _please.”_ Steve begs and Pepper, Pepper is made of stone, she puts her head in her hands and ignores him the best she can.

Steve’s phone rings.

“Tony,” he spits “Tony, you ass, you fucking _idiot,_ let me go, come on, _stop this—_ ”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Tony says mournfully “Christ, I really am. I’m so sorry.”

“Then stop this, stop it, _stop it, please,_ Tony, I love you, you can’t _die,_ stop it—”

“You’ll die, too.” Tony says simply “And I, I have dragged you down far enough. You go home, go back to the tower. I have things in place in case I don’t come back. Pin the military camp on me, say I went insane or something, I know you can figure it out, you’re Captain America.”

“Tony, you can’t _do this—_ ”

“Yes,” he says softly “I can. I’m sorry. I know what I would feel like if our positions were reversed.”

“If you knew,” Steve spits, agonised “if you _knew,_ Tony, then you wouldn’t be doing this. You wouldn’t. If you knew, then you would know that I would rather die _with you_ than live without.”

Silence.

And then.

“Don’t say that,” Tony’s voice breaks “fuck, don’t say that, I’m not worth it.”

“Yes,” Steve says, voice strong, earnest, _real_ “yes, you _are,_ please, Tony, don’t do this.”

Down the line he hears Tony’s breathing. Broken, ragged, and he knows that he has gotten through.

“Yeah,” Tony says, voice shaky. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, and he laughs, soft, down the phone. “Okay, Steve. I love you. Goodbye.”

There’s a beep, long and drawn out and it takes a moment to realise he’s hung up.

Steve blinks, and just like that Tony Stark falls like sand through his fingers.

 

* * *

Diana wipes blood from her hands, cleans them on her chemise gown. It’s beautiful material, a beautiful cut, truly lovely, not like her. It looks better stained with blood.

She ignores Gus’ moans and moves to her table, helps herself to some food. Stark had taken her ear, so she had taken Gus’ in recompense. That seems fair.

Gus isn’t looking so hot, now. Not with the lines carved into his face, running parallel down his cheekbones. Not with the missing ear. 

The design, though, that she has carved into his torso is truly magnificent. She wanted to pick some benefitting his character, something strong, bold, yet fragile too. So she had picked a beautiful, spiralling design, used deep, heavy strokes to carve it into his skin. He looks better, like this, Diana thinks. Truly.

It’s Michael who alerts her.

“Mother,” he says, bowing low, because she isn’t just his mother now, she is everyones. She rules the council. “Mother, Stark is no longer travelling with the Captain.”

Gus raises his head, and bless him, it must take so much of his swindling strength. Diana raises an eyebrow, sips. “Oh?” She says “And how do you know?”

“We were tracking Peruvian airports. At three am an unidentified Stark plane landed, but only Stark got off. We have intel stating that both the Captain and Stark got on the plane, as well as the CEO, Potts.”

Diana hums, sighs. Smiles. Wonderful. 

“Where are they headed?” She says, crossing the room to trace the patterns on Gus’ chest “Do we know?”

“Jerry’s been tracking it since it took off. Looks like it’s headed for a _personal_ runway of Stark’s,” Michael says, grinning. “Low security, a small place he built for whatever reason; it doesn’t matter. We can be there in three hours if we run now.”

Diana smiles, tugs a hand through Gus’ greasy hair, chuckles when he manages to glare, full of hate, spite, promises of retribution. “Do you hear that, Gustav?” She whispers “We’re going now. To get the Captain. Your best friend.” She grins and Gus snaps his teeth, like a dog, growls and whines when she drags a soft thumb over the deep grooves on his cheekbones. “You must be hungry,” she says quietly “maybe you won’t be up to the journey.”

She pulls away, sighing. “Prepare everything,” she orders “get my hunting boots, some strong clothes. I want a pack of us, only the best. Me, you, four others. I want the Captain surrounded.” She snaps her fingers “Get him down, clean him up. He’s coming too.”

Michael release Gus’ chains and he falls, loosely sprawled, in a pile. “You’ll be running with us, Gus,” she sighs “I suppose you better eat something.”

She hands him a goblet and lets him guzzle it down, gives him more and watches how it spills over his cheeks. He whines when it’s taken away.

“This is it, Gustav. We’re so close, I can taste it. Everything I’ve ever wanted, hmm? Isn’t that nice.” She sighs.

Diana deserves this; she _knows_ she deserves. She overcame everything to get here. Her oaf of a husband in the old courts, her stupid children. From the day she found her maker, she knew exactly what her destiny was, everything fell into place. For so many years, she toiled, worked to reach this point. And now? So close. She can feel it, tangible on her fingertips.

 

* * *

There’s a tense silence on the plane as it begins it’s descent.

Steve doesn’t talk. He’s too angry for that.

Angry at Pepper, angry at Tony, mostly just angry at himself, because he can’t do anything now. Because he let Tony trick him. Let him get his way.

And because he let the person he love most in the whole world slip through his fingers.

Steve has lost so much; he can’t lose Tony too.

“Jerry?” Pepper says, softly “We safe to go down?”

“100% clear, Ms Potts.”

 

* * *

Peru in March wasn’t as hot as it could have been, at that was a blessing. It was hard enough considering that stepping out into sun caused Tony to blister, the lack of boiling heat was a help.

It would be worse in the jungle.

Tony runs, his feet pound the earth. He knows where he’s going. He had called Lana, and she had filled him in on the details that Gus had never managed to. The temple is located deep in the jungle, near the Brazilian border. She described, in detail, the rivers, and lakes, the rocks and caves, that he should look out for, the marks of old civilisation to drag him to his destination.

In the end, he had simply had Jarvis run it through the Stark satellite. The site itself was hard to spot from above but Jarvis had the aid of the internet, he was able to match myths, stories and hard fact to pinpoint the rough location.

Tony hadn’t told Lana about Gus. He had come close. But he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth.

He kept imagining what it would be like for him if someone told him Steve was dead. He can feel the heartbreak, he can _feel_ his mind snapping in two, he can taste the hopelessness, the despair, the constant need for revenge and to fill the gap that Steve would have left. It’s awful, and he will not inflict that upon anyone.

 

* * *

The plane touches down just as the first hints sunlight come streaming over the mountains. Pepper says this place is secure, that Tony built it in order to entertain very rich business clients sometime in the 90’s and that it’s unmanned except for the few regulars who are completely loyal.

Steve just grunts.

She tells him that from here they’ll move over to Tony’s mansion and that then they’ll be taking a helicopter to the tower. It’s nothing special, Steve has done it a thousand times before. Except this time, Tony won’t be by his side.

By now, Tony could be in the jungle. Or he could have been hunted down. He could be pinned to a tree somewhere, spear through his belly, eyes lifeless.

Tony could be dead, and Steve is still here.

Except, then they open the strong airplane door, the stairs folding down beneath them, and Steve realises he’s probably better off worrying about himself for the moment.

Seven vampires. Seven. Michael, the man from the border, and a horrifically scarred woman with straggled red hair who could only be Diana. Four others. And Gus.

Gus.

Gus, who kneels, exhausted, with only one ear. With lines carved, like tears, down his face.

Steve, somehow, from somewhere deep inside him, manages to dredge up some pity.

“Captain!” Diana crows, lifting her hands in exultation “How are you? I have to say that it is _very_ good to see you.”

Behind him, Pepper gives a small gasp.

“And Ms Potts!” She says, gleefully. “I love to see a woman in charge, don’t you?” She says, turning to the vampires by her side her nod, make affirmative noises.

Diana is happy. She is beaming. And why wouldn’t she be? She has Steve, and with Steve comes Tony.

(It means Tony is still alive, Steve realises)

Gus lifts his head. Shakes it dully. Then he slides to the ground, unable to fully support himself anymore.

Diana sighs, then smiles. “This is just a taster, Captain,” she says, nudging Gus with her foot “wait till you see what I’ve got planned for your Anthony.”

“Nothing.” Steve interjects “You have nothing planned for my Anthony, because you are not going to hurt my Anthony.”

Diana bursts out laughing. “That’s sweet, Captain, it’s a nice sentiment. It’s a shame Stark isn’t here to appreciate it, really.” She snaps her fingers, and Steve hears Pepper scream because the pilot, Steve can’t remember his name, is shepherding them down the stairs, onto the wide asphalt below.

“ _Jerry?”_ She manages “How long—”

“I’m not.” He says, succinctly “But I will be. They’re going to change me after this.”

_No they won’t_ Steve thinks.

“Miss Potts,” Diana sighs “as much of a shame this will be, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be disposed of.”

“No,” Steve says sharply “that’s not necessary. You don’t need to kill her.”

Diana draws out a knife, it slides against it’s metal holder, unsheathed, and she says. “I actually really do.”

“Whatever you want,” Steve says “I’ll do whatever. Just don’t kill her.”

Diana tilts her head, narrows her eyes, throws the knife from hand to hand. “Interesting. I can’t say there’s much I need from you. I already have you at my mercy.”

“Just say. There has to be something.” And Steve throws a short look at Pepper, where she stands with her head held high, her shoulders back. Steve realises that if she is going to die, she is going to do so with honour.

Which is exactly why he can’t let that happen. She is an innocent in all of this.

Diana considers. “Do you swear to obey my every word?”

Now Steve eyes narrow. “Why would that matter?”

And Diana’s eyes grow small. Cruel.

“I am going to kill you, Captain. You are a means to an end, the end being the complete and utter disintegration of Tony Stark’s mind. I am taking you now and we will go to him. And, when he sees you, he will know all hope is lost.”

“Okay,” Steve says slowly. He doesn’t understand why his compliance is so necessary, it’s not like he’s going willingly. But he nods. “Fine. Everyone on the plane first, I’m waiting here until every single one of you is on board.”

“You promised to obey, Captain.”

“If I try to run then you have my express permission to shoot.” Steve says, voice level. 

Pepper turns to him, as the rest of the vampires climb aboard. “I’ll call them,” she says “the Avengers. You’re not alone in this, Captain.” And then, eyes stained red, she looks him square in the eye. “If Tony… please. I know it’s selfish of me, I know, just… don’t let him die.”

Steve strokes her cheek. Nods once. And then boards the plane.

 

* * *

**One day later:**

It is old. The temple is old. Decrepit. It is everything Tony expected it to be and yet not.

He had pictured a pyramid, something raised into the sky, or something at least above ground. Here, there is a circle of stones, old rubble, and a hole that stretches deep, deep into the earth. He supposes that the entrance must be down there somewhere, but the drop — it’s too large, too long. He won’t make it without breaking every bone in his body, and he has no time to waste.

Which is why he doesn’t hear, at first, the rustling from above. The heavy thunks.

He notices it, though, when Steve is pushed forward.

Tony blinks.

Steve.

Steve?

Maybe he’s hallucinating.

“You’re not.” Steve says shortly.

Oh. So—

“Tony,” Diana sing songs, and Tony realises that this is it. That he has failed. That Steve is here, Steve is here because he has been _taken,_ Diana has kidnapped him, and he is at Diana’s mercy and Diana knows, she _knows,_ that Tony will do anything to stop him from being hurt.

It’s over.

That’s it.

It’s all

over.

Tony throws his gun to the ground. Takes every weapon from his body and throws it into the hole behind him. There’s no point, now.

He can’t meet Steve’s eyes. Refuses to. How can he, knowing he’s destroyed his life? How can he ever look at him again?

“Clever, Anthony,” Diana purrs, and she’s uglier than ever “I like that about you, you’re so _clever._ ”

Four more vampires move forward, and they’re tugging another between them, they’re tugging.

Gus.

Gus?

Tony doesn’t know what’s happening, but he cries out his name anyway.

Gus stirs at Tony’s voice, at the sound of his name, lifts up his head. “Ant,” he croaks. Grins, slightly, forced, and broken “hi.”

Tony swallows. “Your face.” He says, and Gus slumps “Your ear—”

“This is just the beginning, darling,” Diana says, stepping forward. She traces Tony’s face with a finger, watches as he stares stonily ahead, refuses to flinch.

She narrows her eyes.

“Bring them to the edge,” she orders, and Tony jerks, spins, sees where the four vampires force Gus and Steve to the edge of the circle, the flat precipice, only millimetres away from the hold in the ground, the deep, deep, hole, the one that Tony cannot see the bottom of, and rock crack against the stone walls as Steve’s feet tips them over the edge.

“Spread your arms,” Diana commands “no touching, ah ah Anthony,” she smiles, toxic, poisonous “one move and I throw him in.” She whispers, words ghosting round his ear “I swear. And then, you’ll have a nice Steve-pancake, hmm? You can lick his blood of the floor for all I care.”

Tony swallows. And Steve, Steve shakes his head, tries to shout even when his jaw is grabbed by the vampires holding him, covered so his screams are muffled.

Tony let’s his eyes slide, lets them reach into that empty place he’s so good at finding. And then, he spreads his arms.

“Good boy,” she purrs “wasn’t that simple.”

Slowly, excruciatingly so, she tears through the front of Tony’s shirt. Her fingers skim the guard on his waist.

“We need to take this off, don’t we?” And Tony almost punches her, then, but one look at Steve, dangling over the precipice and he stalls, looks into the distance.

She slides it from is body. Rakes her nails down his belly. He flinches up on his toes, winces, flexes, but keeps his arms pressed out.

“Okay, you just stay still, Anthony,” she grins, then “I have,” a soft laugh “I have been waiting for this for a long time.”

A punch, square in the belly, and Tony gasps, his eyes tear up, Steve thinks he tries to scream except all the wind is knocked from his body and he just hits the ground with a ‘thunk’, his arms coming round the wrap around his stomach as he rolls onto the floor.

“Again,” she laughs and kicks him, and then again, and again, and she’s giggling, laughing like a crazed thing while Tony just takes it and tries to protect his sweet spot, the spot where Steve takes him apart with pleasure, and Tony holds up his hands in surrender, raises them over his head where it’s pressed into the ground.

“Does that hurt, Tony, huh?” A vicious kick and this time he screams “roll over, _roll over,_ on your back, on your back!” She screams and then stamps on Tony’s belly.

He cries in pain, retches, shakes and then he rolls over and hot coppery blood slides out of his mouth. Whether it’s his own or he’s throwing up, Steve doesn’t know, but he screams behind the hands on his face anyway.

Tony tries to ease himself away, snaking on the floor, shivering, and Diana lets him, watches him crawl. Then, another well-aimed kick, and the force of it lifts Tony full-bodied off of the ground. He screams, curls in over himself, choking on blood, Steve watches it slip past his lips.

Can this kill him? It’s the only spot where he _can_ be killed, maybe this is it, maybe Diana means to end it, once and for all.

Obviously, Diana then has the same idea as Steve, because she leaves Tony to lie there, shaking.

“Oh, he won’t die,” Diana says sweetly, except her face is a wreck, a mass of scar tissue, and the cloying tone doesn’t quite work as well as it used to “don’t worry about _him._ I have no intention of killing him, he’s just _too funny!”_ She laughs, hysterical, and the other vampires give nervous chuckles.

“Stop it,” Gus slurs “‘top it, Diana. Leave him alone.”

“Leave him alone?” She grits “ _Leave him alone?_ Why should I, Gus. I have been looking forward to this for,” she inhales deeply, closes her eyes “a long time. I’m going to kill you. The Captain.” She turns to Tony. “You know there isn’t a cure right?” And Tony stills on the ground. “Mother made it up. Wanted Gus out of her hair so she wouldn’t have to kill him when I came to power. She was clever like that, although she is dead, now, so it didn’t do her much good.”

Tony stops trying to move away and just rolls onto his back, sits up, one arm wrapped around his bare belly.

And then his eyes meet Steve’s.

Because what is worse than this?

What is worse than dragging Steve along to find a cure that doesn’t exist? What is worse than dragging him down with him? What is worse than the fact that Steve is going to die and it’s all Tony’s fault?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and Steve, head bound by different sets of hands, shakes his head. Defiant to the last.

Defiant.

“As interesting as this display is,” Diana says “I think it’s best we move before the sun rises.”

Gus jerks. In one smooth movement, he dislodges the grip of the vampire holding him upright, tosses him over his head. Gus has always been strong, he is the strongest of them. For a moment, Tony watches, enraptured, as Gus bites the hand of one of the men holding Steve, watches how they fly forwards, narrowly avoiding falling down the hole.

He watches how the other men grasping Steve tight release him, hands reaching for Gus, how they swipe and miss and how Gus ducks back, back, too far back, he misses his mark by just the smallest fraction, and then he’s falling, falling, slipping and his hands grasp the ledge, Tony can see where he strains to pull himself back up.

“ _Gus!”_ He screams, and everything starts to move very slowly, because then Gus looks at him, stares at him with crystal clear eyes, so shocking, electric blue, and then he’s grabbing Steve’s ankle.

Steve’s ankle, and Diana roars, lunges forward even as Gus tugs him down so he slips, and Tony, his mouth tries to form the word, tries to form his lovers name, because this is it, Steve, Steve, Steve, he spins as he tumbles over the edge, one hand holding him tight and he looks up, desperately over the edge, and he screams Tony’s name and then--

and then he is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OkaY SORRY FOR THE CLIFF HANGER.
> 
> I love any comments you might have on Gus and Diana!! 
> 
> Also, next chapter is going to be very gritty. Obviously, Diana now has Tony, so, ugh. Yeah, I mean, she's psychotic. So watch out for violence in that one. I'll warn at the top of the next chapter, too, but just in case.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Diana. And her disturbing imagery. Eeesh. No actual torture, but still. Diana is not a nice person.

Tony feels like someone has wrapped him in cotton wool. He feels stuffed, aching, everything around him is muted, noises sound like they are happening while he lies, underwater.

It’s a peaceful feeling.

Things are blurry, too. When he cracks open his eyes, the muted low light seems to swim in front of his face. He’s lying on something soft, but he can’t quite distinguish it. The warm colours, the muted noises, he feels empty, calm, it’s like he’s floating gently under a lake, under the ocean.

“Oh, Tony,” someone says sorrowfully, and they’re stroking his hair. Pepper, his mind supplies, that’s okay, Pepper can do that.

“You poor thing.” She says, and Tony shifts on the covers, presses his head closer into the furs under his bare skin. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to talk. He’s happy to just let those toying fingers continue while he eases himself back down.

“You’ve lost everything,” Pepper whispers, and the words curl over Tony’s mind, dissipate, he can’t think what they mean. There’s a fire, somewhere, he can feel the heat on one side of his body, not quite burning, but too hot to be comfortable. It’s okay, though. He can manage.

“Gustav. The Captain. You poor, poor boy.”

Tony doesn’t know a Gustav, the Captain could be anyone. He wonders why Pepper mentions them, why they’re important, and he can’t really talk so he just lets it slide.

He cracks open his eyes again, blinks into the blurry light. There is a fire, in a grate, and a blurry brown wooden mantlepiece surrounding it. An indistinct figure sits by his head, sits on the bed next to him, and Tony realises that it might not be Pepper.

He feels furs under his belly, feels his nakedness, and it doesn’t bother him, not really, why would it, but it sends the first tendrils of doubt running through his mind, curling at the base of his skull. A feeling of unease settles in his belly.

A finger, it trails down from his nape to his tail bone, over and over. Gus, something tells him, because this is what Gus would, to soothe him when he was hurt, like back in that bunker deep under the earth. The low, orange lights, the weightlessness of medication and the press of Steve’s warmth to tell him he was safe.

He rolls, curls gently on his side, arms loose and fingers lax, curled softly. The furs are soft against his cheek.

“You must be hurting,” the voice says, careful and soothing “you must hurt so much. When I lost my maker, I cried for weeks, oh, it was awful. But to loose an imprint as well? Tragic. Your agony must be unbearable.”

Tony frowns, tendrils of sleep fading from his mind. He lost his maker, Gus, Gus died at the border. And his imprint, his imprint is Steve, so why—

Who, why has, this is a vampire. He’s being held by a vampire.

And that’s when it comes back to him.

Diana, the cure, Gus, who wasn’t dead, Steve who is.

Steve, who is.

Steve, who is dead.

Dead. And gone. Snuffed out, lying, broken, at the bottom of a crater in the Amazon, where no one will find his body, murdered by Gus, Gus who Tony had trusted, this is Tony’s fault and Steve is dead, oh God, oh God, Steve is dead, he can’t, he won’t—

It is hard to describe the agony a vampire feels at the death of their imprint. It’s about as close to physical pain that emotions can reach. It can take many different forms: rage, depression, an empty, cold hole growing inside or cancerous growth on the mind.

None of the aptly sum up what exactly Tony feels.

He buries his face into the covers, wraps his arms over his head and curls up, tight. Diana sighs.

“Imagine. If only you had changed him when you had the chance,” she says, reaching for a blood filled goblet “then he could still be alive.”

“No,” Tony gasps, and when he looks up, his eyes are full of tears “fuck, no, you’re lying, you’re—”

“You were there, Stark. You saw what happened,” a frown creases Diana’s scarred face “it wasn’t quite in the plan. I suppose Gus couldn’t bear to let it go my way one last time.” She sighs, swipes imaginary lint from her new suit. “Ah, well,” she says “not much that can be done now.”

Tony sits up, and he’s vaguely aware of her crossing the room, the bedroom, this is the same one he woke up in weeks ago, at the start of this, when Steve was still alive—

Because he’s not, oh God, Steve isn’t alive, and Tony shakes, puts his head in his hands and sobs, doesn’t bother holding back, he couldn’t even if he wanted to because there is nothing that could stop this, this tidal wave of agony, the explosion of emotion. Steve is dead, his Steve, his imprint, the man he loved more than life itself, the man he would kill for, murder for, do anything for, he’s gone, gone, gone and it’s his fault because he trusted Gus, he imprinted, he forced Steve out on a search for an imaginary cure, if none of that had happened, none of it, if he had been careful, if he had been wise and not so goddamn selfish then Steve would be alive.

Diana hands him a goblet. “Drink.” She says, and Tony stares at it, eyes wavering.

He slams it from her hand, smashes it onto the floor, and the red blood stains the perfect cream carpet.

“Don’t be foolish,” Diana says, coldly. “I’m offering you food. You do not want to starve, now, Stark. You need your strength.”

“Steve’s dead.” He whispers “Steve’s dead.”

Diana hums, sits herself in a chair, that same chair Gus had sat in once upon a time. “Yes,” she says “I suppose he is. A pity. Death is too clean cut, I wanted to torture him. I wanted to make him suffer.”

“You bitch,” Tony growls, tears rolling down his face “you fucking bitch, you sicken me, I hate you, I am going to KILL YOU.”

He scrambles from the bed, lunges for her in her chair, he is going to strangle her throat, tear her head from her neck and yet the fast movement leaves him gasping, reeling with pain. He clutches his stomach, cries out and collapses on the floor, on all fours with one hand pressed to his belly.

“Don’t, Stark,” she says, lazily “or have you forgotten that, too?”

Tony forces his head up, gasping. “Steve’s dead,” he says again, and he shakes his head, he looks so confused “Steve’s dead.”

“Yes,” Diana says, rolling her eyes, “you’ve said that a few times. It’s not going to bring him back.”

Tony wails, defeated. He lets himself slump onto the floor, it’s not like he’s got a chance anymore.

He runs by everything that he has worth living for. Iron Man. Stark Industries. Pepper would be sad, if he died. So would his team. Rhodey would be furious. But they already think he’s dead, they can handle it. Anyone could wear the suit, Rhodey, he deserves it. Pepper can continue the legacy, SI will ship out reactors, in fifty years they could have the whole planet running on sustainable energy.

Really, he’s not need. Really, he can let go.

Because life without Steve is not worth living.

Diana hands him a goblet and he drinks it with a shaking hand. He doesn’t think about how many humans were tortured to give him this blood. He realises, objectively, that he is next. That Diana has… plans, for him.

He doesn’t care.

He finds his way back to the bed, pushes himself up, wincing. He sees that his belly is a mass of dark blues, purples and blacks, heavily bruised. The pain is ridiculous. He wraps himself in a fur, covers himself as best he can from Diana’s wandering eyes.

“You took my ear,” she says, sipping delicately. “And you’re lucky. Because I’ve already taken Gus’, I don’t want yours.”

Tony stares, half-lidded. Empty.

“But,” she says, standing “but, I have such a wonderful design for you.” And she strides to a table, her oak desk, and pulls out sheets of flimsy paper.

Once, Tony had designed Iron Man on sheets like that.

She brings them over, smiles, sits herself next to him and presses close. She smooths the paper across their laps. It’s a diagram, a male torso and the rough sketches for her design. It loops, right up over his chest, up the left side of his neck, and finishes on his cheek, cradles his eye. From there, over one shoulder and then all over his back, down, down, over his ass, then his thighs. It goes round his right leg, and then back up, finishes on his belly, his navel, and Tony knows she’ll save that for last because that’s where he’ll finally break.

“When the scars heal over it’s beautiful,” she says, proudly “I’ve never managed to work on such a large scale before, humans usually die from the blood loss. But you? You’re a clean canvas.” She giggles, nudges him with her elbow as it they’re sharing a joke.

“You’re quite the artist.” Tony says, voice dead.

“I’m glad you agree. You’ll be a walking piece of art when I’m done with you.”

“And then what.”

Diana chuckles, giggles. “I don’t know, Tony, anything. I’m in charge now. You can be my servant, I suppose. I’m not going to kill you, it would be a waste.”

She ruffles his hair, stands. “I’ll be fun, don’t worry, darling.”

Tony blinks. He doesn’t care.

 

* * *

 

Steve groans.

His first thought, coming back to waking, is I’m not dead.

Next, is Diana has Tony.

And then Gus is a fucking asshole.

He rolls on the soft, mossy ground, tries to find him, tries to see the king of dickheads himself, because he tried to murder him, after everything, it was all an act, the repentance, the pain, he was just playing them all so he could kill him.

Steve sits up, on guard, tense, waiting for Gus to pounce out of the shadows. He catalogues quickly his injuries, finds himself sore but mercifully unhurt. If Gus attacked now, in his weakened state, Steve might have a chance.

There is light streaming down from above, blocked by leaves, but enough to see around in the gloom. The hole is small, perfectly cylindrical, rock walls and stone beneath his feet. Man made.

Which is when he becomes aware of a soft moan. Steve turns, spins rapidly, neck cracking with the force of it but can’t find anyone, he is alone.

A moan; then, hands on his back.

Steve jumps, flips forward, rolls on automatic, braced for an attack and that’s when he sees Gus’ body, lying on the ground, limbs splayed and faced down. He lifts his head, blinks hard, squints.

“Captain?” He says, voice hoarse. “You’re alive. That’s… that’s good.”

“You ass,” Steve says, approaching at a low crouch “you fucking asshole, how much did Diana pay you to kill me? Hmm?” He takes a fistful of his hair in his grip, tugs up his head. “Tell me!”

Gus chuckles, a low, broken sound. “Don’t be stupid, Captain. Why would Diana do that? You were part of her grand plan, she wouldn’t want to lose you down the rabbit hole.”

Steve lets Gus’ head flop to the ground. “I deserve that.” He says, voice muffled.

Steve turns. “Why did you take me?”

Gus lets his cheek rest on the ground. “She was going to kill you,” he exhales “very, very painfully. Trust me, I would know.”

Steve looks down at him. Pauses. And then:

“Are you okay?” He says, quietly.

Gus pushes himself up with a grunt, manages to slump against the wall, panting. “I think,” he breathes “my leg is broken.”

“Super.” Steve says, voice dull. “Have you eaten.”

Gus snorts. “Do me a favour, Captain. Come here.”

Steve steps back. “Don’t you dare.”

Gus rolls his eyes. “I was,” inhale, exhale “going to,” he keeps breathing, heavy, “ask if you could maybe get my cigarettes,” another breath “from my back pocket?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Gus chuckles, props himself up where he begins to slide. “Captain, I have little time for your animosity. Surely, maybe, we can put aside out differences in aim of a common goal?”

“And what’s that?”

Gus’ face darkens. “Captain, Diana has Ant. We’ve been down this hole for a long time, the sun has risen and now it’s setting again — by this point, she could already have him carved open.”

Steve shakes his head. “What, Christ, what’s she going to do?”

Gus exhales thinly, chest rising and falling, every breath a struggle. He tugs at the buttons on his shirt, pulls it apart, exposing his right breast.

“She is an artist, Captain,” he breathes “she’ll do a lot worse than this.”

The scars on Gus’ chest have healed partially. They’ve risen, forming bumps across his chest. It’s a beautiful design, Steve cannot deny.

“And my face,” Gus croaks “look what she’s done to my face. My ear. Tony destroyed her, Captain, and I can guarantee that she has worse planned.”

Steve swallows. “But we’re stuck,” he says, quietly “we can’t get out from here.”

Gus goes quiet. His eyes slip shut. For a moment, Steve thinks he is dead.

Then, he says “Somewhere, behind these walls,” another rasping breath “are the elder vampires. Left, for, for thousands of years, to rot, and go insane with hunger.”

Steve suddenly feels very, very, unsafe. “Are they—”

“They can’t get out, don’t worry. We’re perfectly safe here.” And he smiles, as if the irony of the situation doesn’t escape him.

Steve lets himself sit. “It’s fine,” he says, suddenly. “It’s fine, Pepper says she was going to alert the Avengers, they’ll be able to track the plane, the jeep we drove in to get here, they’ll be able to find us, it’s,” he laughs, the relief hits him “it’s okay!”

Gus blinks as if he fears Steve has turned delusional with heat.

“Honestly,” Steve says “they’ll find us here. God, okay, how long has it been since the plane was hijacked? Nearly a day? They’ll be here soon.”

“I hope you’re not investing,” Gus coughs, suddenly, and blood flies from his lips. “I hope,” he starts again, voice weary “that you’re not investing too much in your team, Captain.”

Steve looks at Gus warily. “Are you, are you hurt, somewhere?”

“Only my soul, Captain.” Gus drawls.

“Be serious.” He orders, and he shuffles to where Gus sits, wary, careful. Gently, intensely aware of every brush of his fingers, of every touch of skin, of the hard muscle of Gus’ torso, he inches his shirt from his flushed, sweaty flesh.

“Ah,” Steve says “I see.”

There’s a gash in his side; Steve suspects it’s punctured a lung.

“It’s not healing,” Gus breathes “I haven’t eaten, I haven’t — ah!” He jerks when Steve runs his fingers over the wound, when fresh blood runs down his ribs.

“Can it kill you?”

Gus blinks. His eyes have gone hazy, blank. Steve crouches, squeeze his shoulder. “Augustus, can this kill you?”

Gus blinks. “That’s not my name,” he gasps “fuck, stop touching it.” He says, batting away Steve’s hand.

Steve draws back. He scratches moss from the floor, rips a part of Gus’ shirt which he no longer has use for, ties it tight around his side. Gus winces, his hands move automatically to clutch at Steve’s shirt.

“Hold on,” Steve says, finalising the knot. “My team is coming, there’ll be help soon.”

“They would… help… me?” Gus mumbles, eyes closing.

“Yes,” Steve says, honestly “they’re good people.”

“Then they won’t… help… me,” Gus says, head drooping.

“Is your leg broken?” Steve asks, feeling down the bone, grimacing when he feel Gus tense, wrenching a scream from his mouth. “Sorry,” he says “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Gus grumbles, lets his head fall back against the stone.

They sit in silence, then. There’s not much else to say.

An hour passes. Two. The sun slips away overhead and they are left in darkness.

“M’ a Nazi.” Gus slurs. “M’ a, that’s my, I’m a Nazi. Or, that's what people call me. S'not true, though.”

Steve nods. “I guessed.”

“I mean,” he coughs, delirious with blood loss and heat, he grabs at his side “M’ not, anymore.” He shakes his head “I’m not German.” He says forcefully “I didn't live there. I never thought Hitler was worth it.”

Steve nods again. “Just sit back down, Gus,” he says, softly.

But Gus shakes his head. “My name is Gustav,” he says “not Gus, I was, back then I was pretentious, and I thought, I thought ‘Gustas sounded cool.”

“Okay, Gustav.” Steve says quietly, exhausted.

“Can I, can I ask you somethin’?” Gus manages.

Steve sighs, rolls his head to the side. He is thirsty, he is hungry. He doesn’t have time for this.

“I know I haven’t been great,” Gus says, mouth slack, breathing laboured “but, but if I die c’n I ask you a favour?”

Steve nods, tiredly. “Yes, Gus.”

“If you live, if you n’ Ant live, can you take my body back home?”

Steve swallows. It’s a need he understands. How many times, when he fought over enemy lines, did he dream about his body being left to rot in someone else's land? When he drove that plane into the ocean, he had thought about it, he had thought I’m going to die, and I won’t see my home one last time.

“Where is home, Gus?” The conversation will help. He’s tired, he’s thirsty. He hasn’t eaten since the plane journey with Pepper. He needs this.

Gus sighs. “It was a town,” he says, tracing patterns in the stone “a village, basically. In, uh, Austria. I’m, I’m not German. I mean, my parents were. But I lived in Austria. I’m Austrian, really.”

Steve smiles. “You had a family?”

Gus coughs, a wrenching thing, and he gasps in pain, clasps a hand to his chest. He nods, though. “I had a wife,” he sucks in a deep breath, presses back against the wall “A daughter. A son.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmurs, because he is, really. He lost his family.

“But I wasn’t a Nazi,” he says, shaking his head “I wasn’t, how could I be?”

“What happened?” Steve says gently.

Gus laughs, bitterly. “I tried,” he says “we tried to hide it for as long as we could,” he says, delirious “but how could you, in those days? Too many traitors, Captain, neighbour on neighbour. It was awful,” he slurs “so bad. And I? I did… awful things, Captain.”

“To survive?”

“No,” Gus says with finality “because I could.”

They stop talking, then. Steve’s thoughts turn to Tony. Tony, who is at the mercy of a crazed woman, probably being hurt while Steve sits here, waiting for the inevitable rescue.

Tony needs to keep hope. Because he knows, he must know, that Steve is coming for him. Surely he knows that Steve would never leave him?

 

* * *

 

Diana had taken great pleasure in showing Tony her knives.

Different blades, different lengths, shapes. She had described, in great detail, what each one was for, how the longer blades would be for slicing his skin from his back, how the smaller ones would be used to carve minute details into his flesh. She described the process in ridiculously meticulous terms, taking inordinate amounts of joy from telling Tony exactly what she’s going to do.

Tony had nodded, stared blankly, and in his head run back the days to better times, when Steve would hold him close.

Had it only been two weeks? It seems longer, maybe, because Tony had been sure of his love for a long time before. Those six months he spent running. Why? Why didn’t he spend them with Steve while he still had the chance?

Now, he’s thinking of that night in the rain, on the lonely road when they had barely even started. How Steve had frozen, watching Tony, and how Tony had tried his hardest to explain why Steve couldn’t love him, why Tony was going to drag him down.

He wishes he had explained harder.

“We’re both engineers, you and I,” Diana says, examining a knife. “You create works of art using screws and nuts and bolts, whereas I use knives and flesh.”

“I don’t kill people.” Tony says blankly.

“Don’t you?” Diana says, with a lecherous grin.

Tony can’t think of anything else to say.

The room Diana has led him to is deep below the compound. As of this day, Tony still doesn’t know exactly where they are. All he knows it that above him is are the chambers that make up the council and that, down here, hundreds of stone steps under, are the rooms Diana takes her people to be tortured.

It’s rustic, Tony thinks to himself. Cells (cages) line the sandy coloured walls. The floor is cobbled stone. Braziers light the walls, throwing deep shadows and creating sharp contrasts. Turn the corner, and there is the place where the torture really happens. The room is L-shaped, so that Diana can keep her victims and the actual act separate.

In this part of the room, there is a stone slab, heavy, strong.

“It’s held together with a gold-titanium alloy,” Diana says proudly, hips swishing, and Tony thinks he’s heard those words somewhere else before. “I had it made specially for you. I knew you would be coming.”

“Great.” Tony says, lacklustre. What does she want him to do, jump for joy? The woman has screws loose in her head, Tony can practically hear them rattling about.

“You just make yourself comfortable, lie on your belly, we’ll be getting the bulk of your back and ass done this week.”

He thinks she’s trying to shock him. Doesn’t she realise he doesn’t care? It’s not that he wants the pain; he doesn’t. He is scared. He does not want to spend the rest of his life down here being carved into by a maniac. If he’s honest with himself, there’s a part of him that wants to sink to his knees and beg. But he won’t. Doesn’t she understand that he doesn’t care that she wants revenge? Can’t she see that?

“You’re not the first monster I’ve met, Diana,” Tony says, laying himself on the table. “You’re not shocking me, here.”

Diana chuckles. “You won’t be saying that in a few hours.”

“Did you ever meet Loki? Did you ever see him? He was a bit like you. Insane. Desperate. Old.” Tony laughs, and empty, cold thing, and lays his cheek onto the stone “he was far worse than you were, Diana. He had seen things that would make you scream. You really think you’re something special? That you’re scary, or better, then I have news for you. I’ve seen people from other planets. At the end of the day, you’re just one more person floating on a rock in space.”

“Is that so?” She says, and it’s the first time her voice has taken on a cruel edge. “Then what does it feel like to be taken down by someone who doesn’t even rank?”

Tony shrugs. “Average. Your delivery could use some work.”

He hears Diana cluck her tongue, hears the drag of metal on metal as she prepares her knives. He thinks about all those evil things out there in the dark. He thinks of Thanos, he imagines Diana coming up against him, and he smiles to himself. She is pathetic.

“This could have been avoided,” she sings, strapping his limbs down. Metal cuffs, obviously something unbreakable, they strap around his ankles, wrists, keep him stretched out, hands over his head and body taut “if you had just been nice to me.” Tony can hear the pout. “We could have been friends,” she says with a sigh, and then one finger traces circles up Tony’s thigh, up, up, to the place where it joins his ass. “Maybe even more.” She whispers.

“I would rather be fucked by a two-headed elephant than go anywhere near you.” Tony says calmly.

Diana chuckles. “I was pretty once.”

“Sorry,” Tony drawls “I’m taken.”

“No,” Diana says, “you’re not.” And Tony remembers that his lover is in fact dead.

They never went on that date. Steve had promised he would take him on a date. No one had ever promised him that before.

He had said he wouldn’t leave.

Diana smoothes his back with a soft hand. Pushes his cheek down onto the stone. “This might sting a little,” she says sweetly and then she gets to work.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve is awoken by a bright, bright light. It’s not natural, it’s white, and it’s shining down the hole.

Someone, some people are shouting his name. He tries to respond, but his mouth feels furry. He can barely move, God, when did he get so weak.

“Here,” he calls, voice hoarse, broken “we’re here.” And he coughs, lolls weakly against the wall.

“Gus,” he says “Gus, they’re here, I told you,” he knocks Gus with his foot, prods him “Gustav, they’re here.”

“Cap?” Someone calls, and it’s Clint, Clint who is scaling down the hole, a quinjet high in the sky and Steve, for the first time in days, manages a smile.

“Hey, birdbrain.” He croaks, and Clint crouches, checks his pupils, presses the comm in his ear. “Affirmative,” he says “we have Cap.” He pulls out water from his pack, glances briefly at Gus’ inert form. “Who is he?” He says after he tugs the bottle from Steve’s lips “Where’s Tony.”

Steve coughs. “We need him,” he says “you can’t kill him. We need him, he knows where to find Tony.”

“Where is he?” Clint says, standing “Where’s Tones?”

“Tortured,” Gus slurs, suddenly, “tortured and carved open and,” he sniffs, inhales deeply “you smell so good,” he whispers, and in the light Steve can see where Gus’ pupils fill with black. It’s macabre, especially with the way the scars run down his face.

“Fuck,” Clint swears, stepping back “he’s one of them, Natasha,” he presses his comm “we have a vampire, and he’s hungry.”

“No,” Steve says weakly “you can’t, we can’t leave him, just,” he struggles to stand, he’s so weak, he feels so tired “if you don’t feed him he won’t be strong enough, just, you must have brought blood?”

Clint nods. “It’s fine, we brought some for Tony, we thought—” He breaks off, because obviously they thought he would be here. “Pepper said that they were taking you to Tony. We thought he would be here.” He finishes and Steve forces himself to stand.

Clint drags out a harness. “Put the vamp in this,” he says, wind from the quinjet repulsers blowing his hair “we’ll lift him up. Steve, put this on.” And he hands Steve a harness, straps him to the rope.

“Okay, Nat, we’re good to go,” he says.

Steve blinks as he’s lifted out of the hole. He realises how deep it truly is and that, most likely, it was using Gus as a safety mat that allowed him to survive unscathed.

He feels firm hands tugging him in, pulling him onto the smooth metal of the quinjet floor, feels water tipped into his mouth and a hand in his hair. “It’s good to see you, Cap,” Bruce grins, and he sets him in one of the chairs. “Here,” he says, handing him a protein bar “eat this to tide you over.”

Steve sets on it ravenously, munches it down and Bruce hands him more which he eats while watching them tug Gus over the edge and into the jet. He’s pale, his shirt is gone and the moss Steve used to seal the wound has wrenched loose. In the high lights of the quinjet the scars on his chest are thrown into sharp relief, the lines on his face evident. His leg is obviously still broken; he hasn’t been healing.

Natasha is the one who pours the blood into his mouth. Gus grips weakly at her wrist as she gently lays him down, careful not to spill a drop. Steve is thankful for it, that she has little fear, and that she can so easily pour Gus’ food down his throat.

“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse, and then shudders, goes slack.

Natasha carefully edges him to the seat furthest from from the pilot’s seat, straps him in and gives him a cursory once over, checks the wound in his side.

“They’ll heal,” Gus mumbles, and he looks very much like he wants to sleep “just, leave me, let them heal.” And he drops his head back against the wall, goes completely limp. He’s not sleeping, his eyes are cracked open just the slightest, but his breathing is even, in and out, in and out. He’s just not quite all there, mentally. Steve wonders if right now he pictures his home.

“Captain,” Natasha says, seating herself next to him as Clint starts the jet “it’s… it’s good to see you.” And her voice is heavy with some sort of emotion that Steve doesn’t often get from her. “What, uh,” she clears her throat, tilts her head, starts again “where’s Tony?”

Steve slowly lowers his head back against the rest, closes his eyes. Tries to think through the fog round his brain.

“Diana,” he croaks “vampire. Head vampire, it’s a… it’s a long story.”

“Pepper filled us in,” she says succinctly “but what about, she said Diana was taking you to Tony, so—”

“Diana found Tony. Beat him. She was going to kill me, Gus pulled me down. Thought I was dead. They left. Took Tony with them.” Steve coughs, body jolting, and Natasha feeds him some more water. He licks his lips.

“So now it’s a rescue mission,” she says softly.

“There isn’t a cure,” Steve blurts “when we save Tony, he’s gonna run, he won’t, there isn’t a cure, there isn’t—”

“Shh, Captain, settle.” Natasha says, pressing one hand to his shoulder. “Just relax. You’re safe, now, 100%. We’ll talk more when you wake up, okay?”

Steve shakes his head. “You can’t kill Gus,” he insists “you can’t, he’s the only one who knows where—”

“We know, Captain, shh,” she says again “you just close your eyes. Sleep, and when you wake up we’ll be somewhere safe. Then we’ll put together a plan, okay? And we’ll get Tony back, simple, don’t you worry.”

Natasha’s right. She’s right. Steve inhales, coughs, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, cheeks flushed. He closes his eyes to the feel of Natasha’s hand rubbing soothing circles on his knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm not entirely sure how long this is going to be. I've been writing it as I go along so I've never really had a definitive plan. I have a rough sketch of how the rescue mission is going to but I just don't know how many chapters it will take.
> 
> Also, the next chapter m i g h t take a while, and I mean it this time, so, gah, sorry. But I'm 100% committed to finishing this, it's so much fun to write!
> 
> As usual, how do you feel about the OC's, plot and pacing etc. I love every comment!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay the next one will definitely take longer, i'm not in joking this time.
> 
> Disturbing imagery, nothing massively drastic, but nothing nice.

Steve awakes to crisp white sheets.

Sunlight. The sound of the ocean.

Jarvis, his voice ringing out through the clean cut air, saying “Good morning, Captain.”

After a few weeks on the road, it feels good. It feels safe.

Letting the haze of sleep slip from his mind he pushes himself up on the bed, looks out the window to see an ocean, waves crashing against rocks. This is Tony’s house, he realises, his mansion. Steve has never been here before.

It hurts, because Steve can almost catch his scent on the pillows. This is his bed. They put him in Tony’s bed.

He feels strong, and wonders how long they let him sleep for. He’s also ravenous, and as much as he’d like to just lie in bed the smell of food calls him down the stairs. There is a murmur of voices, low, comforting, and Steve hitches the blanket tight around his shoulders.

“Sleeping beauty,” Gus drawls from his place on the island. There’s a mug in his hand, and it’s not coffee.

“Steve,” Bruce says “sit. We have eggs.” 

Steve blinks. He feels a bit dazed, slow, lumbered. He moves to the island and slides onto the chair, stares uncomprehendingly at his breakfast.

“Eat,” Natasha says gently “you need to eat properly.”

Slowly, he picks up a fork. “How long was I asleep?” He asks.

Clint shrugs “Eight hours? Since we left Peru.”

Steve takes in his surroundings. It’s morning, he realises, and there is light streaming through the windows.

Steve frowns at Gus. “UV resistant,” he says from behind his mug “neat trick.”

“Eat.” Natasha prods, and Steve scoops the eggs into his mouth. He really is hungry.

“So,” Clint says, taking a seat next to him “we have some options. No, that’s a lie. We have one option, and you need to hear us out, okay, because you’re not going to like it.”

Steve pauses, glass of orange juice halfway to his lips. “And why is that?”

Bruce flips a pancake. “Because,” he says, frowning with concentration “we are in no shape to take on a, how many vampires did you say would be there?”

Gus sighs. “Six hundred, give or take a few. It’s Diana’s coronation, they’ll all be flocking for a bit of that.”

Bruce nods. “Right, six hundred. We are in no place to take on six hundred vampires. Our numbers are down,” he says pointedly “and our scout is wounded.”

“I’ll be fine in a day,” Gus says, but watching him closely Steve realises he’s lying. He’s too pale, his eyes too wide. He holds his mug with both hands, shoulders hunched, hiding his laboured breathing.

“Point being,” Clint continues for him “is that we’re outnumbered. And if Tony is anything to go by, then we’re most likely dead five minutes after stepping through the door.”

Steve’s thoughts are violently thrown to the idea of Tony, strung up, tortured by that bitch. He remembers that every second Steve spends here, eating eggs and drinking juice, Tony is probably screaming in agony.

His fork clatters to the plate. His Tony, Tony, he’s being _hurt,_ and what the fuck is Steve doing about it, eating, sleeping, luxuriating, God, oh _God,_ Tony, he’s so sorry, he’s so, so sorry.

“—eve” he hears “Steve!” And then Natasha is in front of his face, hand grasping his chin and he pushes her away, his chair scraping back against the tiled floor.

“Shit,” he says “shit, sorry, fuck.” He breathes, in and out, calms himself, he’s always known how to calm himself, has had to, because who else would do it for him?

“Take a breather, Steve,” Clint says from his spot at the table “hey, just take it easy.”

Steve shakes his head vehemently. “There isn’t _time,”_ he says “you don’t understand, you didn’t see her, you’ve never _met_ Diana. She’s a monster, a sadist. She _hates_ him, she hates Tony, we haven’t got time to, to _sit_ and _talk_ and—”

“What’s worse, Steve,” Natasha says quietly “going in, all guns blazing, dying? Leaving Tony to rot? Or to wait. Plan. Get him out quickly, quietly, hmm? You should know that, of all people.”

Steve drags a hand over his face, leans his elbows on the counter. “God,” he whispers “God.”

“Listen,” Clint says “listen to what we have to say, and then we can think up a new plan if you don’t agree, just wait.” And Natasha nods, takes a seat opposite him, next to Gus.

“I’m going to go in. Double agent — no, shut up, let me talk — we haven’t got a chance, Steve, of getting in either way. Gus says that the reason he was turned was because the Mother saw his… checkered record as a sign that he would be ruthless. A killer.”

Steve blinks. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re supposed to be dead,” she says bluntly. “I will approach the council, demand to be changed.”

“And then what?” Steve interrupts again “they, what, you _let them?_ You can’t be—”

“You don’t just _walk_ into the council and demand to be changed, Steve,” Gus says in his usual scathing tone “there are rules. Regulations. Under my… under Mother’s command, the old rule that anybody with the goddamn guts and intelligence to both find and walk into the main chamber would be granted membership. After, of course, a… _stringent,_ interviewing procedure.” Gus sits up straighter in his chair. “You forget, Captain, that we _are_ supposed to _ask_ before we change another. Not in my case, obviously.” he winces and the Avengers look elsewhere.

They know, then. Gus hasn’t hid the fact that he was the one to change Tony. That he was the one who caused this.

He wonders if they know that he was the one who tipped off Ross.

“And what,” Steve rebounds “you expect _Diana_ to be as lenient? As fair? Especially when _Natasha,_ an _Avenger,_ and a _friend_ of the man she’s trying to torture, waltzes in and demands to be changed?” Steve snorts “She’s psychotic, not stupid.”

“Diana likes pretty things, Steve.” Gus says quietly. “And she will see in Natasha what she’s lost. What she was before. She’s going to kill her child, Michael, anyway. She will want someone strong to follow her.” Gus nods at Natasha “You’re an ex-assassin?”

“Ex-KGB.” She says, smoothly. “Or thereabouts.”

“Congratulations, I was a Nazi.” Gus replies. “Or thereabouts. Mother chose me because she thought I would be a killer. Diana will choose you for the same reason.”

Bruce frowns, swallows his pancake. “I’m not an expert on,” he waves a hand vaguely “ _vampire politics._ But, if I were a ruler like Diana, if I had come into power by killing and lying, I wouldn’t _want_ someone that strong, someone that _clever,_ to be my next in line. Especially if I were _immortal._ That’s just, then you’re just _asking_ to be murdered in the night.”

“You can’t kill your maker,” Gus says bluntly. “You just _can’t._ It’s never been explained, _I_ don’t know why, never have. Trust me, if you could, I would be dead by now.”

Steve snorts, crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. Everything about him radiates hostility, he wants to be _out_ and _fighting_ because Tony is _hurting._ “Why are you here, Gus? Why haven’t you run away?”

“You know why.”

“Feeling guilty?”

“Always.”

Steve smirks. “Did you tell them?” He asks “About what you did?”

“I didn’t think it would be helpful.”

“No,” Steve exhales “it wouldn’t be, would it?”

Silence.

“So, uh, are we agreed, then? That Natasha’s going in, or…?” Clint scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

Steve blinks. “Yes. Yes, fine. Natasha can handle herself, okay,” he slumps, runs a hand over his face. “So what,” he sighs “will you be gathering intel, or—”

“Partly. I’ll assess when the best time for an attack, evaluate any potential exits. It’ll give me a chance to see what I can do for Tony.”

“And when Diana wants to change you? What then?”

Natasha pauses. “If what Gus says is true, then I will have at least a week before that becomes a pressing problem. However, if the need _does_ arise… then we will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Can Steve really let her go if it means getting Tony back?

“When do we start?” He asks.

 

* * *

**Two days later:**

Diana makes a mistake somewhere half down Tony’s back. It’s frustrating, because this is delicate work, and it’s not like it can just be erased. Now, she has to wait for the section to heal and then go back over it. It’s lucky she realised her mistake, lucky that she didn’t start digging deeper in order to cement it into his flesh.

Stark’s skin is getting slicker, flushed red with exertion and sweat. She’ll send someone down to bathe him shortly, and then she’ll go attend to other matters. Being ruler is tiring, the council tedious and the people either incredibly stupid or incredibly dull. She wants the time to work on her masterpiece but can’t afford to be lax now, can’t afford to have her power wrested from her grip so soon after winning it.

The man on the table moans when she traces the swirls on his back. She started on his left shoulder and had brought it down so that the tip of the design just skims the small of his back. She is progressing well. Stark will look magnificent when she has finished.

“Hungry, Anthony?” She asks and the man lifts his head, knocks it down against the table. The pain must be exquisite, really. It’s not something Diana would like to experience. 

She plays with his sweat-soaked hair. It’s hot, down here, too hot. The braziers light the walls and cast deep shadows over Stark’s face. His eyes are hazy with pain, he keeps blinking, mouth slack and mind empty. He has screamed. Diana has made sure of that.

She smiles and taps his cheek. “Come on, Stark, we’ve barely even started.”

“Fuck you,” he slurs, and his head falls, unable to hold itself up, in her hand.

She clucks her tongue. “Oh, Anthony, that just won’t do. That’s not nice language at _all.”_

Tony frowns, unable to focus. “W’at do you want fr’m me?”

Diana sighs, strokes his hair. “To hear you scream, mostly.” She crouches, presses close to where his head lies. “Look at what you did to me,” she whispers “look at what you did, — _look!”_ She hisses when Tony’s eyes slide closed, grips his chin in her hand, squeezes, forces his head up, to look at her, look at the _mess_ he made of her.

“You should count yourself _lucky,_ Stark. Count yourself lucky that I _gift you_ with my designs. Be grateful that I don’t burn your face and be done with it.” She lets his head slap against the metal, hears his groan.

She moves to the small sink in the corner, washes her hands free of his blood. Stark has yet to break, but that’s okay. She has time and he takes after his name. “Stark”, strong. You can’t just shatter metal with force, it needs to be heated first, and that’s just what Diana is doing. 

The death’s of Gus and the Captain weren’t ideal; she had wanted to use them against Anthony. None the less, they have proved effective in dulling his spirits. The fight has gone from his eyes. He does not protest when she digs her knife into his skin.

She dries off and sets about slotting her knives back into the correct holders. Then, she wets a damp cloth, brings it to Stark’s back. “Hold still,” she commands, as if he has a choice, and then drags it over the torn flesh. It draws more blood to the surface but for the first time she is able to clearly see where the scars with form ridges, spiralling designs, looping and grand. With a sudden burst of happiness, she allows Stark some food. He deserves it for being such a beautiful canvas.

She unlatches his wrists and ankles from the table. She will not be unnecessarily cruel. His punishment is being taken care of, forcing him to stay on the table does not seem right. She tries to lift him onto his feet but once off the table he collapses, cries out, bites his lip to stop any more noises escaping.

“Don’t be stubborn, Stark,” Diana chides, and she lifts him, places on of his arms over her shoulders, another around his waist.

Tony could do it now, maybe. He could kill her. Get the right angle, snap her neck from her head. They’d kill him, obviously, but that doesn’t matter. If he could just get the right—

“Mother,” somebody says, and then a man is bowing.

_“What?!”_ Diana snaps, obviously annoyed at being disturbed. The man backs away, bows lower. 

“Mother, there has been an arrival, an, one of _them,”_ he says with a pointed look at Tony. Tony frowns. One of _them?_ One of him? What is he? A vampire, yes. A… well, he’s an Avenger. Maybe, could they have found him, somehow? Could they know where he is? Could this be a rescue?

“The red headed woman, Mother, the Black Widow, she—”

Not a very good one, obviously.

“I know who she is, fool,” Diana says “here, take him.” And Tony feels himself shunted from one set of arms to the other.

The man tries to balance Tony while talking. “Shall we, shall we give the order? Shall we have her killed?” He whispers, and then, seemingly gaining courage, continues. “There are rules in place, Mother, remember, we cannot kill those who find us—”

“I know that.” Diana says, and Tony notices that she very deliberately dresses herself back into the apron that is covered with Tony’s blood.

Which means she won’t kill Natasha. She is going to _talk_ to her. And she wants her to know who Tony belongs to.

“Where is she?”

“I, I directed her to your chambers, Mother, I thought—”

Diana smiles. “Good. Tell the council that you have been promoted.”

Promoted to what? Tony doesn’t think either of them know. Diana is an ineffective ruler.

The man begins to stutter thanks and pushes Tony back into one of the cages. There isn’t much inside, just a dirty blanket which Tony suspects was used to cover a dead body at some point.

“Do you hear that, Anthony? Hmm?” Diana crows “Do you think she is attempting a rescue? A lone Avenger, here to take back what they perceive as theirs?”

No, obviously not. Natasha is a spy. She knows what she is doing. Tony has faith.

Unless she knows that Steve is dead.

That Tony is the reason he died.

Tony shudders in the corner of his cell and Diana laughs. She finds it funny. But Tony’s mind is running a mile a minute. He needs to explain, he needs to find some way to tell Natasha that he’s sorry, that he’s so sorry, that he never wanted Steve to die, that is was an accident, that she can leave him here if she wants. 

Again, the freshness of his death hits Tony hard and he buckles, curls over himself, ignoring the pain as the skin on his back splits at the force of the movement.

“Or maybe she’s here for something else?” Diana says softly “What do you think, Anthony? The Widow is a clever woman.”

Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s playing the double agent. Of course she is, gathering intel, assessing the enemy, it’s what she does.

Diana leaves, cold air swishing after her, and the man follows suit, stumbling after her, and Tony is left alone. For the first time in a while, he allows himself to breathe, deep breaths, in and out, until his mind feels like it’s swirling.

He’s so confused, he doesn’t understand, Steve is dead, Gus is dead, it’s not fair and it’s his fault? God, the pain in his back is awful. Diana is psychotic and he wants it to end.

Natasha is here. Natasha is _here._ Has she come for him? Is she spying? That is, traditionally, her forte. God, he hopes so. He hopes she tells everyone what’s happening here. That the Avenger’s burn it all to the ground.

Of course, their missing their leader. And Tony. Their numbers will be down. Not good, not good at all. Tony shivers, despite the heat.

Steve is dead. God, how can he be _dead?_

 

* * *

The room is all opulence, fire and oak, and Natasha allows herself to recline in the plush chair. Diana is obviously a woman of fine taste. Not like Natasha. Natasha never could stomach luxury.

In her ear sits a com and on her shirt is a camera, a direct link to the safe house three miles away where the rest of her team plus the vampire, Gus, sit, waiting. Watching. They will be evaluating too when they think the best time to launch an attack is, catching anything she might have missed.

When Diana sweeps into the room, Natasha stands. She plays her part: cold, manipulative. Ambitious. Eager for power. She puts herself in that character’s shoes. If she was that woman, then she would stand when Diana enters the room. She would want to curry favour.

Diana’s face is melted. She has only one ear. On her head sits the remains of what once would have been an impressive head of hair, red in colour. She looks at Natasha like a lioness might look at a particularly succulent piece of gazelle.

“The Black Widow,” she murmurs “no, no, sit, don’t stand on my account.”

Natasha lets herself sit, sink back into the red chair. Diana sits opposite. 

They begin.

“I would give you a chance,” Diana says, voice smooth “to explain yourself. I would not want to kill you and there are rules in place, you see. I should start by asking how exactly you found us?”

Natasha is prepared for whatever she throws at her. “Tony,” she says, calm. “After he left here he came to the tower. Told Steve that they needed to leave. He told me where to find this place, although he too was vague on the details.”

“Mm hmm,” Diana says, as if making note “and are you aware that the Captain is dead and that Stark is in my custody?”

If Natasha was a cold, manipulative creature, then she would smile. So she does. “Yes,” she says, grin stretching her features “I am aware.”

“Does it please you?”

Natasha sighs. “That you have Stark? Or that the Captain is dead?”

Diana waves a hand. “Either, both. I want to know how you feel.”

“I feel, that with the Captain dead I have the chance to,” she giggles “how should I put this, _indulge myself._ With my last links to that team cut, I can move on.”

“Move on?” Diana purrs “And what do you mean by that?”

Natasha makes her face smile. “When I was younger, I was an assassin. I have needs. And Tony, well, he was disgusted, quite frankly, when he told me about what you were doing. But I thought… I thought it was _marvellous._ What he described? Art. Pure art.”

Diana tilts her head. Smiles. “Well, you make a convincing case. It’s so rare that anybody appreciates my art.”

“Oh but I do,” and Natasha stands, eyes reverent, crouches by her chair “I really, really do. I tried, you see, I tried to recreate your designs.” She pauses. “I don’t quite have your… talents.” She injects irritation into her voice. “She died on the table. I reached a kidney, cut too deep.” She frowns. “I’m not usually so careless,” she admits, and then she looks up, as if derailed from her train of thought. “But I want _you_ to teach me,” and she dares to touch Diana’s knee “I know you’re the best. I want your help.”

Diana stares. She cocks her head. Then, strangely, she almost blushes. “Oh my,” she says, fanning herself “you are a very convincing actor.”

Natasha frowns, because that is what a psychopath would do in this situation. “What?” She says “No, I found you, I found _you,_ because I want to learn,” she shuffle forward on her knees “I want you to teach me.”

Diana laughs, loud and clear. “I know who you are, Natasha. I know what you do. What makes you think I would trust you?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Tell me,” she says, desperately, or, she makes herself sound desperate “tell me what I need to do.”

“Oh Natasha,” and Diana drags a hand through her hair “I think you know.”

She shakes her head, even though yes, she does, and she sends a silent apology down to Tony. “No, anything,” she shrugs, laughs, even “whatever you need, whatever you think I would need to do.”

Diana pats her head, like she is a pet or a favoured grandchild. “Come,” she says, and she stands, holds out her hand. “I want to believe you, Natasha, truly. You would make an excellent addition to my family. You’re clever, bold. I like that. You appreciate true art. You understand that I must test this?”

Natasha takes her hand. “Anything,” she swears.

“Natasha,” Clint warns in the com in her ear. She has done this before. Gotten to deep in her cover. “If you can avoid it,” Clint says “then try.”

Natasha lets herself be led through corridors until she reaches a stone slab of a door. Diana opens it, reveals a single staircase, spiralling, leading down, down, down. Natasha makes a note: easily defendable. Difficult to manoeuvre. If she’s lucky, there might be an escape route at the bottom but you can never be sure.

“After you,” Diana says in the sickly sweet tone, and the atmosphere becomes cloying. The weight of Diana at her back leaves her more than a little uneasy. 

The stairs finish directly in a stone room. First glance? L-shaped. Cages line one wall, and Natasha can’t see what lies behind the corner.

Stone, cobbled floors. Sand walls. Braziers with burning fires. It’s hot.

Tony is in one of the cages. Naked, bloody. Gaunt, face drawn. Although he doesn’t need sleep, there are circles under his eyes and his hair is greasy, unkempt. He’s sitting propped against the wall, head lolling, apparently not self conscious.

“I heard you were coming,” he slurs, sighs. “Doesn’t surprise me, really.”

Tony knows. Of course he knows, he’s a clever boy. He will play along.

Natasha lets herself smile. “I’m sorry if I was… obvious.”

“You’re a sociopath, Natasha. You’re not hard to spot,” his eyes focus on the figure behind her “I saw Diana from a mile off.”

“Show her your back, Tony, go on,” Diana chides “she wants to see true art.”

Natasha hears Clint’s held breath over the comm. Then, Tony shuffles, winces. He looks as if every joint is aching. He turns, though. And Natasha, she remembers just in time that she needs to smile. That she needs to crow. Because Clint swears in her ear, and she can imagine Steve’s fist meeting the table when he sees the video, Bruce going green. So she forces her lips upwards.

“Magnificent,” she whispers, reverently. “Can I—” She looks back at Diana, mimes touching.

She shrugs, proud. “If you can get him to heel.”

She toys briefly with the idea of ripping her head from her shoulders but knows it would be futile. Instead, she crouches, beckons Tony to the edge of the cage.

The thin chemise scarf that’s twisted over her arms and behind her back slides. “Tony,” she says softly “you’re a walking art work now.” And then she giggles. That’s what psychopaths do.

Up close, Tony looks worse. He looks broken. His lip quivers, his eyes are empty. He’s not quite tracking her movements and this, this is so much worse than she thought. “I’m sorry about your Captain.” She says levelly, and Tony’s face cracks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers “fuck, I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t want him to die, I’m so sorry, I promise,” he shakes his head “I didn’t— it was my fault, are you,” Natasha sees where he is about to lose himself, break her cover. She sees that he’s about to ask it the rest of the team are angry.

Which is bad, because it would break her cover, true. But also… Stark _does_ realise that Steve is alive, doesn’t he?”

“Not at all, Stark,” Natasha says, forcing his eyes to meet hers “I’m not angry at all. To me, a dead Captain is exactly the same as he was alive,” and it’s a long shot, but maybe Tony will see, maybe he will get the hint “with the added freedom, of course.”

Tony hunches, shakes his head. He rests his body against the metal of the cage. The door rattles. “I’m sorry,” he says, again “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“You’ve broken him, Diana,” Natasha says, voice smooth and strong even though she feels sick to the core “congratulations. I’ve been trying for a while.”

“It’s simple, Natasha, darling,” Diana drawls “just hit the right triggers and he was ready to snap.”

Tony thinks Steve is dead. That his imprint is dead. Natasha needs to tell him the truth, needs to find a way to give a him a reason to live.

“Come,” Diana says “sleep, now. Tomorrow I’ll test your loyalty.”

Natasha blinks. “On him?”

Diana laughs. “Oh, you won’t be _carving_ him,” she says daintily “he’s my special project. But I’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”

Diana turns, moves back up the stairs. And in that moment, that brief, unguarded moment, she ducks her head, whispers quickly, as fast as she can:

“We are coming. Steve and Gus are alive.”

She hears Tony gasping behind her, hears the rattle of the cage where he falls, but she cannot look back. She has dipped out of character and she needs to set herself back in. She slides, smoothly, from Natasha Romanoff, spy, to Nat, friend of Tony Stark, and back again.

She walks the stairs and kisses Diana’s cheek because that is what a killer would do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions on everything are loved! I love to hear what you guys think!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Diana, seriously, she's creepy. Bear in mind that Natasha is viewing what she chooses to do as a means to an end, but still, warnings for dub-con. And torture. And this should be the worst of it really, since I have the rest plotted out!

Tony world spins and falls.

And then puts itself back on it’s axis, because _Steve is alive. Steve is alive!_

Something blooms in his chest, that part of him that cracked is soldered back together, metal melting and forming an impenetrable barrier between him and whatever Diana throws at him.

Because Steve is alive! Ha!

He starts to smile and then he grins. He has to press his hands to his mouth to stifle the gasps, and wipes at the solitary tear that tracks down his cheek. Fuck, it’s okay, this is going to be okay. Steve, Steve isn’t alone. He has the Avengers. And Gus! Gus is alive, Gus is, Gus is alive?

Maybe Steve didn’t realise when he told him he was dead?

He files it into a compartment of his mind to be rifled through later. Now, he sets apart the new revelations, starts spinning them over his brain, blocks the pain to some secondary place and thinks.

Natasha is obviously a double agent. And she is here to get him out. They’re going to _rescue him,_ fuck if that isn’t brilliant, his heart feels like it’s being swollen, like someone is pumping air and blowing it big in his chest. It’s _hope,_ he realises, the hope that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, that Steve is alive, and that maybe, just maybe, they can sort this out.

There’s no cure. Tony is, he is going to be this way forever. But, he has Steve. And that? That is a small price to pay.

Tony has a sudden, striking vision of him in fifty years time, Steve still young by his side, still arguing with Gus, as they watch the world grow. It’s not… it’s not the worst feeling in the world. Together, there are so many possibilities. And Steve, his ageing is slow, that won’t be a problem for, well, for a while, so maybe… maybe, when the time comes, Steve can make that choice.

He just needs to escape. Steve and Gus must be with the Avengers, probably somewhere nearby. And Natasha, will she be the one to break him out or is she surveying exits? If so, it’s a good idea. The Avengers storming this place would end in death.

His concern flickers towards Natasha. Natasha, who is risking her life to be here. He trusts her, yes. Mostly. Or at least, he trusts her not to play with her life. But still. It jars. It sets a cauldron of worry into his belly.

And talking about bellies, Tony begins to feel the hunger pains. He has eaten, just not near enough to cope with the torture inflicted on his body. He shudders, briefly, as the euphoria begins to wear off and reality sets in. Tomorrow, Diana will come back down with Natasha, and Tony will be starving, and weak, and rabid, and she’ll just lay him down on that table and start slicing at his skin.

Tony hates the slow descent into ferocity, hates how he grows feral as the hunger pangs grow. Hate how, even now, when Natasha has come to help him, he fantasises about digging his teeth into her neck.

Some things never grow old.

 

* * *

Steve neck cracks in the dark room. He’s been watching the monitors since the very start, and even though now Natasha is supposedly in sleep and her camera discarded in her clothes Steve can’t stop watching.

Because anything could happen. And he needs to be on his guard. Tony was there, Tony was down there, Tony, who had thought he was _dead,_ God, he had thought that, Steve can’t imagine it, and now Diana is hurting him. Carving into him.

Steve clenches a fist with rage. Breathes. In, and out. He’s fine. It’s fine. Soon, he’ll be able to hold Tony again.

Take him out on that date.

But now, he’s faced with the reality of what exactly they’re attempting to do. Because they are going to try and infiltrate a nest of blood-sucking, superhuman, menaces who have little morality and nothing to lose, as well as everything to gain from sucking them all dry.  

So. There’s that.

But there’s also hope. Because Tony is alive. And he is… he is alive. That is what matters. And as long as he keeps living, Steve will have hope.

In the dim light, he sees Gus standing outside on the balcony, looking out at the night’s ocean. He’s on the phone, talking to Lana. Steve thinks about the marks on his chest. The brand. The scars marring his once pretty face that will never really fade.

Hope, he thinks, we all have to have hope.

 

* * *

The next morning, Natasha is awoken by a hand on her hair.

In that place between sleep and consciousness she can’t quite place it. She even forgets, momentarily, where she is. Why she is here. What lies ahead.

It’s a soft giggle that brings her back to the present and like slipping into a silk dress she slides back into the headspace of willing protege to Diana, the psychotic vampire. She fights back a groan of discomfort, rolls gently on the soft sheets, feels where her hair is swept neatly away from her face.

“Darling,” Diana drawls, elbows resting on the mattress by her head “I thought you’d never wake up.” She giggles again, an ugly noise that matches her ugly face, and stands, sweeps majestically. “I’ll have someone bring you breakfast,” she says “no blood, obviously.” And grins, sharklike. Natasha scoffs lightly, smiles, and ducks her head as if she’s said something particularly funny, made some kind of lewd joke. 

Because Natasha recognises the look in Diana’s eyes, and she needs to be on guard.

Did Diana watch her sleep the entire night? She holds in a shudder.

Sometime later, a timid woman drags in fresh eggs and toast. Simple, probably because as a rule, vampires don’t have much cause to keep fresh produce around the house. Or for food in general. 

Diana arranges for clothes to be brought, too, except Natasha’s idea of suitable attire is very, very different. Diana includes fresh brasserie in the collection and Natasha resists the urge to vomit, slipping suspenders over thighs, red lingerie over pale, creamy skin. The dress, at least, is practical. Simple. Black, close-fitting yet pliable material, the sleeves run down to her wrists and the neckline is boat-necked, conservative. Not that it matters when a dress is this form-fitting.

Natasha quickly secures the pearl earring holding her comm back onto her ears, then the camera held in the pendant of her necklace.

Diana enters again, this time dresses in similar attire, and Natasha can see where once she would have been beautiful. Long, slender legs, but thick curves, all clinched tightly in the black material. Natasha, she does not feel _pity_ with the vampire, not when she has Tony downstairs in a cage, but she can _empathise._ There’s a difference.

Diana smiles, her boiled skin stretching. “I wondered if I could brush you hair?” She says softly and Natasha quirks a smile, almost forgets herself, her character, the part she is playing because Diana is, if she didn’t know better, which she does, appears to be attempting a seduction.

Again, she smiles. Ducks her head, sits at the mirror, legs folded and hands resting gently on her lap. Best keep them there to avoid the shakes.

She hears Clint’s voice in her ear. “Stay steady, Nat.” And she allows herself one hard swallow, hoping it could be put down to her own apprehension.

Diana sighs, running a bristles brush through the red locks. At this time, it rests some way down her shoulders, long, although she’s had it longer. Diana is humming, smoothing down the thick hair and running something through the roots.

“You’re hair is very pretty,” she states, running a clawed hand through the mass of red “I used to have hair like this, once.” And her hands tightens, reflexively, on the back of Natasha’s neck. 

She stiffens, only briefly, a natural reaction. She puts herself in the proteges shoes, what would she say?

“What happened?” She asks, injecting curiosity and the usual reverence, as if she can’t believe she sits in Diana’s presence.

“Stark,” she says simply, running the brush down for the final time “I came to, well, admittedly I was planning on ensuring that they stayed out of Mother’s hair. That was the plan, back then. Send Gus to take Stark away, keep both of them busy, and then Mother would abdicate in the absence, leaving the throne to me. But Stark refused to let me come, kicked up a fuss.” She lightly touches the place where her ear used to be. “Marked me. And then set me on fire. The scars are healing, actually. But I will never be beautiful again."

“I’m sorry,” Natasha murmurs “I wish I could make it up to you.” 

Diana chuckles. “You will, just you wait. I have Stark down there, waiting. He hasn’t eaten in a while. He’ll be hungry, so you should be careful.” She begins drawing Natasha’s hair back, the whole length of it, sweeping it behind her shoulders.

“Everything is perfect,” she sighs, setting the hair into a smooth bun, coiled low on the back of her head. “Gus, well, Gus is dead—”

“Wrong,” someone chimes in her headpiece.

“Tony is,” she laughs “broken. A wreck—”

“Wrong,” the voice says again, sardonically.

“And you are here. By my side.” She leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Natasha’s head.

“And wrong again, three strikes, you’re out. And also creepy, very very creepy.”

Natasha smiles, looks up at the Diana’s reflection in the mirror though lowered lashes. Diana strokes down her neck, bends closer, and for a moment Natasha thinks she’s going to take a bite, tenses, only for her hand to curl round the front of her throat.

“Pretty,” she says softly “very pretty.”

Natasha blinks. “I—”

“The necklace,” Diana corrects “where did you get it? A fitting design.”

The best way to tell a lie is to twist the truth. “Easy,” Steve says in her ear “easy, Nat,”

“Clint Barton,” she says smoothly, not missing a beat, not breaking eye contact “the archer? Surely you’ve seen him.”

“You wear his necklace,” Diana says, and although it’s thrown casually Natasha can hear the threat interlaced with the soft words. “Why.”

Natasha smiles. “Because men,” she says “are stupid.” She tilts back her head, looks up at Diana’s broken face. “He’s been chasing me for years, you know,” she says lightly “always ‘Tasha this,” and ‘Nat that.’” She grins. “I find ultimately that men are best suited for buying me diamonds.”

Diana glares down at her stonily, and Natasha knows she’s blown it. Any moment now, Diana willrip the necklace from her neck, the comm from her ear, and throw her to the ground. Torture will follow, but she can stay strong. She was born for this, and she is ready.

But then Diana grins, laughs, throwing back her head. “Oh, darling,” she says “don’t look so serious!” She smoothes her hands over Natasha’s cheeks, presses the faces together as she stares into the mirror. “You are… truly beautiful, my dear,” and Natasha blushes daintily “there isn’t much that would improve this face.”

Diana’s fingers play with the clasp of an enamelled box sitting on the table. “Except this.” She says, drawing out a thin, delicate tube. “Nothing quite has the same effect as red lipstick.”

She straightens, uncaps the cylinder and draws out the rich rouge. Gently, taking Natasha’s chin in her soft grasp she tilts upwards. Natasha’s lips fall open, soft, and she watches as Diana runs the colour of blood over her lips.

She pretends not to notices when Diana’s tears wet her cheeks,

 

* * *

 Tony smells food before he sees it.

God, he’s so _hungry,_ he would eat anything right now, something hot, and warm and—

and he needs to _stop,_ because that is not food, that is Natasha, and he cannot, will not, attack her. He won’t. No matter how much Diana goads him.

When he first catches sigh of her, Natasha, walking delicately down the spiralled stone he takes a moment to appreciate that she is very, very good at her job. She blinks twice before stepping out of the way to allow Diana to pass, a warning, a pardon. Tony blinks lazily in return, eyes unfocused.

“Anthony!” Diana says, and she strides to the cage, that fucking impenetrable cage, and hooks her hands round the vibranium bars. “Did you have a nice night?”

He winces, drags his head back. “Delightful,” he says, voice uncomfortable.

“I have a surprise for you today,” she says, and she sounds breathless “Natasha here is going to show me _just_ how much she wants to be by my side, isn’t that right, darling?” She turns her head back to where Natasha stands, hands clasped in front, demure, waiting. She smiles when Diana addresses her, grins.

“It’s going to be fun, hmm?” She laughs, and then her eyes widen, her face pressed between the bars “what will it feel like, Tony, being tortured by your _friend?_ By your _team mate?”_

Tony rolls his eyes. “Can you honestly look at her and tell me that you think we were ever friends?”

Diana hisses. “Don’t be cruel, Tony.”

“That’s rich.”

Diana clicks a key into the lock of the heavy metal gate. It makes a screaming noise as it drags across the stone floor. “Come on, Tony. Time to play.”

Tony sneers, shuffles, uses the railing to drag himself up. His back twinges, and then burns, and he can feel blood wetting the skin.

Diana tuts. “Look what you’ve done.” She complains “God, just let them heal, you’ll only make it worse.” She reaches out a hand to trace the patterns and Tony hisses, spins and slaps her hand away.

Diana stands, hand still raised, looking completely affronted. “Tony!” She says, shocked “Don’t dothat. I only wanted to touch.” She grins, frowning, and it gives her this completely evil, murderous look that’s fresh out of Tony’s nightmares. That is, if he had nightmares. Or dreams. Or sleep in general.

She tugs him out by the shoulder, shoves him out onto the open floor. He nearly stumbles, falls, and it’s Natasha’s hand that steadies him. A smooth squeeze, indistinguishable from any other type of spasm, a reassurance and a request for forgiveness. Tony’s eyes flicker and he nods, briefly.

“This way,” Diana sings, hips swinging down the room to the L-shaped bend that leads to Tony’s usual set-up. “We haven’t got all day.”

Natasha props Tony up, takes one arm over her shoulder, puts her own around his waist. “He’s heavy,” she says and tugs him forward.

Diana makes some sort of noise of agreement as Natasha turns the corridor with her load. “Here,” she says “bring him here, quickly,” and there’s a childish glee in her voice as she turns a lever, slowly lowering heavy set chains to the floor.

“Come on!” She says, and she’s practically jumping from foot to foot “hurry.”

Natasha lumbers over to where the chains hang, two, heavy and thick, with manacles on the end. She catches one of Tony’s hands and then the other, finally moving away and leaving him to support his own weight.

There’s heavy breathing in her ear, she doesn’t know if it’s Steve, or Clint, Bruce or Gus, but she does know that they are watching her now, judging her, Natasha Romanoff, as she prepares to torture her friend, her _good_ friend, which is a title Natasha does not use liberally or frequently. 

“It’s just,” Clint says “fuck, you have too, okay? Just,” he sounds strained down the line “you need to gather intel as well. If, look, if you weren’t there we wouldn’t have a hope, okay?”

Steve in conspicuously silent.

Tony lets himself hang, feet skimming the ground. Natasha steps closer, takes one finger, and skims it around the arc. “What will you do with this?” She says “Is it part of the final design.”

“It’s the centrepiece, darling. I have some beautiful things I want to try out around that thing.”

Tony’s eyes slide up, briefly, to meet Natasha’s. She nods.

“What do you want me to do?” She asks.

 

* * *

It’s the burn that gets him, really. It’s the burn of the alcohol down his throat that he had hoped, after Ross, he would never feel again.

He thinks he might be begging, but he can’t be sure. Everything feels far away.

 

* * *

 

Natasha does her job.

Later, when Steve looks back on it, that is what he will tell himself. She did her job, and she is doing what she can to survive, for Tony, for them. Without her, Tony would on that slab, heart broken, empty, and there would be no chance of rescue.

Steve watches as Natasha lifts a bottle of vodka, Smirnoff, smashes it open and grabs Tony’s jaw in her hand.

“Please,” he says, voice a whisper, burnt raw, and she open his mouth and forces it down.

Tony’s chokes, jerks, chains cracking against one another.

But her vitals are elevated. Steve can see on the monitor, heart rate elevated, and Natasha can lie without a single trip of the heart but she can’t stop fear. Diana watches her, is most likely listening for any sign of resistance, and hopefully the heartbeat can be put down to excitement.

He watches Natasha pull back, Tony still choking, liquid spilling from the side of his mouth, head bowed and muscles slack. “Stop,” he whispers, spitting blood “fuck, just—”

Natasha picks up a cattle prod. Passes it from hand to hand. Considers. And then jabs Tony in the belly.

He howls, draws his legs up futilely to protect his soft spot, dances on his feet trying to avoid the burning touch as Natasha brings it back again.

“Nat,” he slurs “‘lease, just,” his head drops, his entire body going slack and Steve presses his head into his hands, because he doesn’t want to watch this, his Tony suffering and for what, oh _God,_ he wishes it was him, God, what he would do to swap places.

Diana claps her hands, laughs. She pushes her way to Tony, drags back his head, gathers the blood from his mouth on the tip of a thin finger.

“Do you know what would happen if you licked this, Natasha.”

“I would change.” She says, dutifully.

“Yes,” Diana says quietly. “You would.”

And then she exhales, wipes her hand on Tony’s chest. Now, his head is thrown back, his back bowed and feet dragging on the floor.

Diana waves a finger. “Enough. I’ve had enough today.”

Natasha turns the lever, watches as Tony slumps to the floor, hands still encased in chains. She wrinkles her nose.

“He stinks,” she says “ugh.”

Diana laughs. “You’ll come to love it. The smell of pain. Although, I know you’ve done your part in the past, probably nothing unusual.”

Natasha chuckles. “I find body oder offensive in all it’s forms.”

Diana waves a careless hand. “Wash him. Take a shower yourself, clean off and meet me upstairs. I’ll have men send down fresh water.” She frowns. “Could you be a dear and bandage his back? I don’t think I trust anyone else with that design. Feed him, also. I will have food delivered.”

Success, then, it the purest form. Diana trusts Natasha, and this trust leads to increased contact with Tony, which in turn leads to better opportunities for protection. It was worth it, Natasha justifies, it was okay. 

(The end never justifies the means Steve’s voice whispers in her mind.)

Diana leaves, just sways out, leaving them, and Natasha crouches, slips from protege to Nat in a blink, hands running over Tony’s cheek, supporting him, carefully wiping the blood from his mouth. Tony coughs viciously, brings up more blood from where the alcohol has torn at his insides.

Natasha does not speak, yet. She does not know if Diana is listening.

“Don’t cough on me,” she says, trying to inject venom into her voice and it’s passable at best “don’t, don’t,” she has to cut off, her voice cracking. She clears her throat, tries to put it down to a cough, and gently strokes Tony’s hair until the water and blood is delivered.

“Leave us,” she demands imperiously “I haven’t finished with him yet.”

The man delivering the produce sneers. “Stark,” he says “Stark, I wouldn’t mind a crack at him when you’re done.”

Natasha drags the bucket towards her, and she is either monumentally brave or ridiculously stupid because she spits. “He’s not yours to have.”

The man shrugs. “Not yours, either.”

“No,” she agrees “Diana’s.”

The man nods. “I’m her son,” he says “Michael.” And then his tone turns cold. “He killed my imprint.”

Natasha stills. “Well I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll make it up to you. Now leave before I tell Diana that I’m being disturbed from my… quiet time.”

It’s a long shot, but it takes. Michael leaves and Natasha silently congratulates herself on being the best at what she does.

Natasha waits, silently. And then she falls to her knees. “I’m so sorry,” she gasps “fuck, are you, here,” she raises Tony’s head, slack in her grasp, tilts the blood gently down his throat, tries not to think about where it comes from.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again after the whole bottle is drained “I had too, and it worked, it worked, just—”

Tony frowns. “You don’t need,” a cough “you don’t need to justify yourself, Nat.” He says weakly, 

She drags her thumbs over his temples, smoothes back his hair, presses a quick kiss to his forehead. “Yes,” she says “I do.”

Tony coughs. “You’re being so _nice_ to me.” He says, eyes cracking open with the beginnings of a wry grin.

Natasha snorts, wets a sponge. “You and I have different interpretations of ‘nice.”

“Obviously.” Tony says, but the closes his eyes, lets Natasha clean his body.

She’s gentle, working carefully over scars, washing away sweat and grime and dust. She is especially gentle with his back, with the myriad of patterns carved into the flesh. She bandages them, just like Diana asked, carefully and thoughtfully, tight so not to risk tearing.

She feeds him more blood. Gently swipes it from the corners of his mouth.

“Steve,” he mumbles “Steve, is, is he okay? He fell, it must of hurt, is he—”

Natasha surreptitiously checks her back. Then she unhooks one earring from her ear, places it Gently by Tony’s.

“Quickly,” she hisses, and she curses herself for being so sentimental.

Tony’s eyes cloud with confusion. “What…” he says slowly, blinking, but then the voice comes down the line, tired and battered.

“Tony?” Steve says “Tony, it’s me, it’s Steve, oh God, are you okay? It’s me, sweetie, I’m okay, I’m just worried about you.”

“Steve,” Tony croaks “Steve, I thought,” he swallows “I thought you were dead, I thought—”

“Shh, I know, but it’s okay, Gus saved me. Natasha’s there to help okay? Just listen to what she says, I swear, she knows what she’s doing.”

Tony nods laboriously. “Okay, yeah, I know.” He says.

“I miss you so much, Tony, I miss you—” Steve’s voice breaks “fuck, sorry,” he says “I love you, Tony, don’t you forget it.”

Tony nods. “Yeah, I love you,” he mumbles “don’t go, just, can I keep it?” He says to Natasha and she feels, oh God, she feels tears prickling her eyes.

“No, Tony,” she whispers “say goodbye and you can see him soon.”

Tony blinks. “Steve?” He says “You still there?”

“Always.”

“I love you.” 

“I know, Tony, I know, and I swear after this is over we’ll go on that date, yeah? Just you and me—”

Natasha hears footsteps echoing down the stone stairs and rips the comm from Tony’s ear, deftly places it back into her own. She puts fingers on her lips, warns Tony to be quiet, stay quiet, but Tony shakes his head.

“I didn’t, I didn’t say goodbye—”

She slaps him, once, hard, around the cheek. “Shut up, pig.” She spits as Diana rounds the corner.

A smile plays on the other woman’s lips. “I was going to ask what was taking so long but,” he chuckles “I see now. Don’t let me disturb your fun.”

“No,” Natasha says, rising. “No, I’m finished,” and she shoots Tony one more contemptuous look. She spits, once, on his kneeling form and spins, crosses over to Diana.

“I thought maybe I could take that shower?” She says, levelly, preparing for what comes next. 

“Of course,” Diana says, one hand guiding her forward. 

“And I thought, maybe,” Natasha feels the churning in her gut. She tells herself that This is Necessary, that she needs to have all of Diana’s secrets, she needs to know all the routes in and out of this place, so she says. “I thought maybe you would like…” she blushes, ducks her head. She purposely parts her lips, bites the lower lip gently, seductively.

Diana’s face twitches. She gently lifts Natasha’s chin. “Maybe I would like?” She says, softly, encouraging.

“To watch me.” Natasha says, _whispers,_ and the effect is instantaneous, Diana raises to her full height, looks down at the the smaller woman. Considers with a lilting smile.

“Yes,” she says, magnanimously “I would like that a lot.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would LOVE to hear how you think Natasha is being played out as well as Diana? I just wanted to forget the guys for a while because Natasha Romanoff is literally one of my faves ever.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graphic descriptions of torture, mainly a beating.
> 
> also, *spoiler* there's some suicidal ideation on Natasha's part but it's very brief.

“Update?”

Steve jerks from the screen, head flipping up suddenly, bleary and tired. “Wha’?” He says, looking round, twisting in the chair.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Gus says, making it clear that he really did.

“I, uh,” Steve runs a hand over his face “uh, it’s,” he blinks “it’s, what time is it?”

There is sun streaming through Tony’s wide windows in the office area overlooking the lounge. Steve had fallen asleep at his desk. He checks the screen, quickly, just in case, fuck, what if Natasha had signalled for help and he had _missed_ it because he was sleeping—

“Relax,” Gus drawls, shoving coffee under his nose. “She checked in two hours ago. All good.”

Steve blinks again. “Thank you.” He says, and then pauses “Why are you being so nice?”

Gus shrugs, sips from his cup of, yes, blood. He is drinking blood from a mug with the words “world’s best inventor” on one side and “only after coffee” on the other. It’s cheap, and cheesy, and Steve heart twinges because that would have been one of Tony’s mugs when he lived here, when he _drank_ actual coffee, before it used to send him to sleep.

They sit in silence for a while, Steve sipping the bitter liquid and Gus just staring at the sun. It must be a novelty for him, Steve guesses, to be able to sit and watch the ocean, the sun high in the sky, without being burned.

“Your friend is good at what she does,” Gus murmurs and Steve puts his coffee on the table.

“Natasha?” He asks, and Gus nods.

“The ex-KGB. She is good,” Gus says “very good. It’s difficult, to win Diana’s affections in… in that way.” He frowns. “Impossible, actually. She should be careful. Even I don’t know where this could go.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Win her affections?” He half yawns, trying to stifle it down.

Gus stares at him. “How long were you sleeping for?”

“I blacked out after,” he swallows “I talked to Tony? Natasha put him on the line for me.”

Gus’ face darkens. “That’s dangerous.” He says “And stupid. She could have been caught.”

“He thought I was dead.” Steve protests “He thought—”

“And now he knows you're alive. He has information that he didn’t before, he, he,” Gus shakes his head “Diana could have seen. Tony would have gotten the flack, not you. It was stupid. Of both of you.”

Steve shakes his head, too tired to argue. “Sure, Gus.” He says, eyes closing.

Steve suspects that the other man is not used to passivity. That he wants to storm the council, _now,_ get Tony back. That waiting is not something he is accustomed to.

“What happens after,” Steve says abruptly “after we get him back.” _If._ “What happens to the council after we kill Diana.”

Gus frowns. “Well,” he starts “I’m not… I don’t know. Technically…” he winces. “Technically, it would fall to Michael. Her son. But if we kill her… then I suppose to whoever kills her. If they're a vampire,” he adds hastily “you haven’t really got a chance, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh no. I was so hoping to be king,” Steve drawls.

“I mean, if we kill Diana,” Gus continues, sighing “then it will be me, most likely. I will be given the throne, as the vampire who had direct lineage to Mother, who, for intents and purposes, died of ‘natural causes’, so there was no disgrace in her death.”

“But she didn’t,” Steve interrupts “Diana killed her.”

“Right,” Gus says “but if the council acknowledges that then they are acknowledging that Diana is on the throne illegally. I was supposed to take after, technically, after she died so it will fall to me by proxy. They think that I would abdicate to someone else, but…” he frowns “after this, that won’t be happening.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” He says, sipping from his mug.

“I cannot risk this… happening again.” Gus swallows. “It’s for the best,” he reasons “I’ll keep everything tight, settle down,” he sighs. “Maybe I’ll change someone new, someone strong to take my place without… prior commitments.”

“A nice house with a picket fence,” Steve muses “two kids, the eldest is a bit of a problem child,”

Gus snorts. “You can be the dog if you like.”

“Tempting. I think I’ll pass.”

Gus laughs, then, and leaves, trailing down the corridor still chuckling to himself, probably to make use of Tony’s indoor swimming pool with the skylight.

And then, without the distraction, his mind turns back to Tony. It’s like slamming into concrete, reality hurts, and he remembers that while he sits here drinking coffee that Tony is in pain, that Natasha is risking her life, doing awful, unforgivable things, in order to save him.

Tony. Tony, who had sounded so weak over the comms, who hadn’t gotten to say goodbye.

Soon, it will be over. That is what Steve tells himself. In a day, two, maybe a week, it doesn’t matter. This time next year he and Tony will look back on this as just another blip in the road.

It will be okay.

 

* * *

“Rise and shine, sleepy!” Diana crows from her chair “five am, you’ve slept enough.”

Natasha stifles a yawn, gently raises her head. Diana is seated in a plush velvet chair, dressed in silk shirt and pants, black heels and lipstick perfectly applied. She smiles, brushes the burnt orange remains of hair from her shoulders.

Natasha, in contrast, is still wrapped in her towel, splayed out on the crisp white sheets. From, because… best not to think on it, really. No use thinking on it. She did her job. She does her job. She will do her job. 

“Diana,” she murmurs sleepily, hair sliding down her back, smiling lightly. She yawns, pushes up, dragging the towel around her body. She ignores Diana’s looks, the way she glances surreptitiously at the barely covered curves. Natasha feels sick, slightly. She’s dealt with worse, obviously. From men. Diana is completely different.

“We have a busy day ahead of us, darling,” she drawls “you need to be up and out at,” she checks a small watch about her wrist “5:30 am at the the latest. I have coronation details to finalise, but I promise I’ll be down to help you.”

Natasha blinks. Tony, she means Tony, obviously.

“What, uh,” Natasha blinks sleep from her eyes, stifles another yawn “what do you want me to do?”

Diana sighs, stands. “I don’t know, sweetie. You just play around with him, see what you can get.” She crosses her arms, tense “I won’t have time to fix him up for a while,” she says, voice terse “too many preparations.”

Natasha thinks. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she says, slowly “why have a coronation if you have no interest in one? Surely, as ruler you make that decision yourself.”

“I need an example. I need to show my strength,” she chuckles, pours herself fresh blood. “That’s why I need Stark. I need you to break him down, Natasha,” she sips, swallows, goblet swaying in creamy fingers “I need to show them, show them what I’m capable of, yes? There will be people coming from all over the world for this. I have some particularly irritating Scandinavian cousins who have always been problematic. One look at Stark and they’ll know I’m not joking.”

Natasha presses forward, because now, _now,_ she is getting information. Her eyes briefly slip to the camera and comm sitting disguised as jewellery on the vanity.

“When will the coronation be?” She asks, innocently.

“Four days,” Diana says, casually “four days to get everything ready,” she rolls her eyes and groans “God, it’s a wonder I don’t postpone it.”

“Don’t,” Natasha says, maybe too quickly, because Diana gives her a curious glance “don’t,” she repeats, slower. “I remember once I had a target who switched the date of his benefit,” Natasha smiles “thought that he could avoid the assassination if I didn’t know when it was.”

“And?” Diana prompts.

“And he ended up with a bullet through his brain in his own bed.” Natasha finishes. She grins, too, because that is what Diana’s protege would do.

The other woman laughs. “Charming,” she says, sipping some more from her goblet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She pauses, eyes flicking back up to Natasha. “I mean it, though,” Diana says “I need him ready in four days. Four days, or I might start to think you’re not… loyal.” She says delicately, eyes flashing.

“Absolutely,” Natasha says, firmly, confidently “I look forward to it.”

Diana purrs. “Of course you do,” she pouts, draining the goblet dry, letting it roll to the carpet. “Ugh,” she says, making a face. “Not good at all.”

Natasha waits, waits for Diana to leave, or to give her further orders. Instead, she stalks closer, and Natasha reflexively pulls the towel tighter around her form.

“I can trust you, can’t I, sweetie?” Diana says, sidling closer, one knee perched on the bed “You will _hurt_ Stark, won’t you?”

Natasha stays calms. Thinks, 1, 2, 3. The protege would be confused. So she frowns. The protege may be hurt by Diana’s mistrust: she injects pain into her voice. The protege would want to display talent, and/or eagerness, so:

Natasha’s brow furrows. “Yes,” she whispers, reverent “I want to hurt him.” She shakes her head “What do I need to do? Tell me. Tell me what you want, what you need, I’ll do it.” She takes Diana’s hand in hers, clasps it tight, letting the towel expose creamy flesh. “What can I do to earn your trust?”

Diana stops.

She leans, in. Close.

Natasha seizes an opportunity. With one hand, she caresses Diana’s face. Her neck. Lower. 

And Diana shudders.

Somewhere, just on top of her collar bone, lies her Achille’s heel. And she doesn’t know she just gave it away.

Diana smiles, fondly. Draws away her hand and pats her head like one would a favoured pet. “You get ready, darling,” she drawls, words tumbling from her rouged lips “I’ll join you later.”

 

* * *

Tony’s mind swims hazily through heavy-logged pain. He blinks, sways in the chains, feet sliding on the ground like a baby deer, he can’t get his balance and he feels like he’s burning from the inside out.

“Easy, Tony,” Natasha murmurs “just a few more, it needs to look realistic, okay? Shh, just, hold.”

Tony groans, head falling forward. “Stop,” he mumbles “please.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha whispers “just let me get it done quickly, okay? And then I’ll feed you, just, fuck,” she wipes the blade on her dress “please,” she says urgently “just let me, and then it’ll be over for today, I _promise._ ”

“It’s ‘urts.” Tony slurs, head collapsing down. Natasha take it in her hands, one flushed sweaty cheek in each palm. “Hey,” she says, softly, tilting his head back “hey, come on,” but Tony’s eyelids flicked, he coughs blood, and he’s not healing, he’s weak, empty, running on dry.

“Can I talk to ‘teve?” He manages, eyes cracked open “Is he there? Can I—”

Natasha curses inwardly, curses her sentimental streak that allowed Tony to speak to Steve in the first place, as if that was going to help, or make it any better, and now Tony wants to talk to him, wants to jeopardise everything. She’s already had Gus breathing in her ear about it and she can’t risk it.

“No,” she says “no, he’s sleeping.”

 Tony’s head falls down again, is only held up by Natasha’s hands. “Jus’ finish,” he slurs “quick, make it quick.”

Natasha draws back, picks up her knife. 

“Let me talk to him,” Steve growls, and Natasha can hear Clint object in the background “let me talk to him, he’s wasting away, fuck, Romanoff—”

“— she’s undercover,” Clint argues “I’m sorry, Steve, just let her do her job—”

“You don’t have to hurt him that much,” Steve spits and Natasha flinches “stop it, you’re making him hurt on _purpose—_ ”

“Steve,” Bruce says quietly “calm down or leave, go clear your head—”

“I’m not the one who need to clear my—” Steve’s voice snaps off the comm.

“Natasha,” Clint says, cooly, calmly. “Sorry about that. Please continue.”

Natasha swallows. “Clint,” she whispers “Clint, I—”

“Natasha,” Clint says again “just do it.”

Her vision goes hazy for a second. The lines between what’s real and what’s not blurs, shudders out of focus. The man in front of her is not Tony, the knife has a different blade.

It’s snowing. She shivers.

Blood stains the ice.

“Natasha,” Clint hisses “hey, hey,” and then his voice goes soothing “relax. One step at a time, yeah? Remember.”

Natasha remembers.

“Shut up,” she grits, tightening her grasp on the knife. “This will hurt, Tony.”

She lifts his foot from the ground and he cries out. She blocks her ears, Clint voice humming softly, almost like he knows, which he probably does.

He’s always known her too well.

She doesn’t know what she’d do without him.

She slices, quickly, efficiently, brutally, down Tony’s calf. He cries, and whines, and tries to tug his foot away but he is too weak. She puts his foot onto the ground. She raises her knife. She draws lines of blood on his ribs. He hangs limply. She raises her knife. She carves a circle into his hip. She stops. Pauses. Tony screams. She raises her knife.

And then it’s done. She steps back, throws the blade away, takes his head in her hands. “Hey,” she murmurs “hey now, it’s okay, Tony, I’m done, it’s enough. Take a break.”

Tony’s head lolls, his eyes rolling back into his head. “I’m s’ ‘ungry,” he rasps “fuck, I,” his eyes widen “Natasha—”

“What’s happening here, then?”

Michael. Diana’s son.

“Nothing,” she says, straightening cooly, because fuck, fuck, how much did he see, how much did he hear? She collects her thoughts, has to, because this is critical, Michael is staring at her like she is his next meal and Tony is breathing heavily by her side. She slips into the protege, what would she do, how would she act. 

Willing aid of Diana, she would not be afraid of this man. She would have nothing to hide. She may attempt to have friendly relations with him.

“Am I allowed to feed him?” She says, Michaels eyes tracking her across the room as she washed her hands clear of blood in an old bucket “Did Diana say?”

“No food.” Michael says and Natasha’s heart sinks.

“I don’t know,” Natasha says casually “what effect starvation can have. He’s not healing?”

“No,” Michael says “that’s the point.” And then he smiles. “Mother wants him broken.”

Natasha shrugs. “To be honest, I think he’s nearly there.” She says, conspiratorially, and giggles. 

Michael gives a forced chuckle, something dark in his eyes. “I’m supposed to be checking up on you,” he says, rolling up his sleeves “but I have a grudge to fill, so,” he cracks his knuckles “I hope you don’t mind?”

He cocks his head, smirks, as if genuinely asking, and Natasha’s hand flies to cover Tony almost on instinct. She curses inwardly, realises her mistake. Covers up.

“Did Diana say?” She asks “Did she say you could? I don’t want him _marred,_ he’s _my—”_

_“Mother_ said I had the go ahead as long as I had your permission,” he pauses “I _do_ have your permission, don’t I?”

This man knows more than he’s letting on.

And Natasha knows now that she is on very, very thin ice.

Someone is breathing heavily in her ear. “Calm, Nat,” the voice says “just… do what you need to live. Tony is a vampire. He will survive. They want him living. You are expendable.”

Natasha’s heart is thumping in her chest and she knows that Michael can hear it.

“So?” The man leers “what will it be?”

Natasha steps aside smoothly. “Go ahead.”

Michael grins, pops his shoulders, flexes his fingers. He cranks the leaver, turns Tony higher, drags him up so only the tip of his largest toe skims the floor.

“Hi, Tony,” he says, and he spits “hi, how are you?”

A punch, vicious, to the side of his face. Tony gasps, a moan wrenched from his mouth, and he spits blood to the floor.

“You killed her, you know?” And Michael takes a fighting stance, feet braced, arms raised, another punch to the other side of his cheek, another cry “your Captain killed my baby. He killed my Sandra.” 

He draws back a fist and slams it up into Tony’s ribcage so he choke, gasping for breath, moaning, swinging in his chains. “Wait—” he gasps “wait—”

Slam. Another fist, this time straight to his belly, and Tony howls, throws back his head, a sob escaping his lips. Slam, another, another, another, three directs hits to his stomach and Tony, Tony can’t comprehend that level of pain, he simply whites out, sensory overload, and when he comes to he is screaming, high and wild. His feet won’t touch the floor and he can’t curl over himself.

Michael braces his feet. He smiles, sadistic. And then he uses him like a punching bag.

Fists come from nowhere, fast, too fast, with the speed that only a vampire can have, with a speed that only _Michael_ could have because he is faster than average, Tony thinks distantly. His skin blurs, fists flying so fast that they’re impossible to see, and Tony can’t even scream.

He feels things snapping inside him, he can feel something rupture, oh God, can he die from this, he thinks he might be dying, Michael hits his belly over and over and over and Tony knows that he’s holding back, that if he wanted he could punch a hole right thought him.

He sobs, there’s nothing else to do, and sways with the force of the throws. He spits out teeth and he’s aware of a steady stream of blood flowing from his mouth down his chin. His face is swelling, swollen beyond recognition, and the skin is broken, he no longer looks like Tony Stark he looks like Frankenstein’s monster, and this pain is not computable, he would rather die, he would rather die than take one more second of the beating of the firm fists that crack his bones, the feeling of flesh giving way under hardened muscle and it hurts more because he knows that Steve is watching this, they’re all watching this, and he chokes on his blood, and —

The slurry of fists stops so suddenly that Tony cries out, pants, completely slack in his chains. The agony is impossible to understand, the all over ache is bone deep, breaking him up from the inside out, and so at first his does not notice hot, wet blood that is not his soaking his torso.

He can’t lift his head to look up and both eyes are swollen shut, but he manages to crack one open enough to see the head lying on the floor.

Oh Natasha, why.

Natasha stands, chainsaw in hand. Bloodied, face grim. It’s such a macabre scene with her hair done up in a bun, with the pearls in her ears and a pendant on her neck, and she thinks that she might actually be in shock.

What… why, she just signed her own death sentence. What was she _doing,_ she can’t, Clint is screaming her ear, telling her to run, to leave Tony, as if that’s even an option, and she stands, blinking, and she needs to _move_ but she can’t spur herself into motion, it’s embarrassing, she just looks at the headless body kneeling on the floor and the head whose mouth is gaping open and closed.

“Go,” Tony sobs “please, Natasha, run.”

Natasha frowns. Is Tony trying to speak? All that comes out is a garbled mess, some of his teeth are gone, his jaw is probably shattered and his cheeks are so swollen he is genuinely unrecognisable.

“Tony,” she whispers “what—”

Tony moans again, louder, and Natasha shakes her head.

This is it, then.

Gently, she presses the comm in her ear. “Clint?” She asks, softly “I think—”

“Don’t lose focus, Nat,” and Clint’s voice is desperate down the line “please, just, please don’t—” and his voice actually cracks. Natasha blinks. Imagine that. Someone is sad to see her die.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and she can hear the voices upstairs “Clint, I’m sorry. Tell everyone that. And Steve. And…” she blinks, frowns, tries to connect her rapid, loose thoughts “and get Tony out. Get him out. Use what I’ve shown you, and get him out of here."

“Natasha,” Clint swears, “Nat, please—”

Too late. It’s too late. She threw away her chance when she took the blade to Michael’s neck. He knew, obviously. He had heard her conversation. She was dead from the minute she walked through the doors.

Natasha had not had a nice life. And this is a stupid way to die.

She raises her knife.

She hears Diana behind her, she hears screams of outrage.

She raises her knife.

She thinks that she actually loves Clint.

She raises her knife;

and it hits air. Swiped from her hand.

“You,” Diana spits, and one hand curls into her hair, tight, clinching, and _pulls,_ wrenches her upwards. Diana kicks her son’s head like a ball, slams Natasha into the wall “ _you,”_ she spits, and a slap, hard, against her face, she’s spitting blood just like Tony. “I trusted you,” Diana whispers “I trusted you, you stupid little bitch. You think you can take me on?” Slap. “You think that _you_ are any match? I could rip your head from your shoulders in a _heartbeat.”_

She slams Natasha into the wall again, and her head cracks against the stone, the hand is back in her hair and she is thrown to the ground.

Things go blurry, after that.

She has been compromised.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts are appreciated!! We're coming to the end now, plus an epilogue. My last exam is tomorrow morning and after that I have about twelve weeks off so expect a few faster updates. 
> 
> As usual, I love to hear how you think the characters are coming across? So Diana and Natasha and whoever else. It's a big help!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS IS SO SHITTY AND SO LATE

There is frenzy.

“We need to go,” Clint says, breathless “Steve, fuck, come on we need to go, we need to—”

Steve is floating. He’s stuck in this timeless place, the voices around him are distant. What just happened, what had just happened, Steve had, there had been _hope,_ and now there is nothing, now there is only death, and pain, and imminent failure, because Natasha, there was no way she was going to live, Diana would be on her in a second, probably share her with the others, torture her, kill her, and why, why did Steve send her in in the first place, why did he think he could make that call, that it was ever a good idea.

Clint keeps tapping at his comm, even as the inevitable is made clear through the camera. Diana swipes at Natasha’s head, it cracks against stone, she’s thrown to the ground.

The necklace is ripped from her neck and discarded into a corner, the only sight it is now able to see is the dull grey of a wall. The microphone picks up Diana’s screams, Natasha’s pants, and then silence when it is presumably crushed.

Nothing. After that, there is nothing.

Steve swallows. Clint keeps banging his fists into the counter, over and over, as if that will help, as if that will make this better, as if anything could make this better, because in that moment Steve sees that he’s killed Natasha and he’s lost Tony and the only chance he has of ever seeing him again is if he risks the life of his entire team.

Steve never even got to say goodbye.

What remains of them, now? Steve, Clint, Bruce and Gus. Gus, the traitor, the liar.

Automatically, Steve’s mind shifts. He goes from self-pitying to strategy because that is what he does, he is a soldier, and he will fight. There will be time to mourn after, if he’s still living, or if they fail. Right now, he is needed as an intellectual presence.

Steve blinks himself back into life.

“Stop, Clint,” he says, voice distant “that’s not helping.”

Clint spits, railing back, one hand pressed against the window that looks out over the sea, another fist clenched tight by his side. “Fuck,” he says “fuck, _fuck—_ ”

“Stop,” Bruce says again, voice calm, soft, even, and Steven notes that Hulk could probably take down a good few vampires if they play it right.

“Where’s Gus?” Steve asks, surveying the room. He spots him in a corner, one finger pressed in his ear, the other pressed to a phone, muttering in a low voice. Clint slams his fist into the window.

“She might not be dead,” Steve says, knowing full well that it may be true but won’t be for long “she’s resourceful.”

“She’s human,” Clint growls, and he’s right, she is a human against vampires and she is a human on her own, a human who does not have a super-ability to manipulate, a human who, once the game is up, dies like everyone else.

“Everybody back,” Steve says, voice low, “everybody, sit down, we need to talk.”

“What’s to talk about?” Clint says, voice bitter but taking his seat anyway “Natasha’s _dead,_ I can’t believe we’ve _done this,_ we’ve fucked up bigger and better than ever before—”

“We haven’t,” Steve says firmly, not even believing himself “we, we haven’t, we’ll work around this.”

“You’re just saying that because Tony’s dead.” Clint says, and he looks Steve square in the eyes, doesn’t flinch even when Steve does “you’re just saying that because you don’t want to think you’ve lost him.”

“I haven’t lost him,” Steve says, voice level “and you haven’t lost Natasha, chances are they’ll keep her alive, try and goad us into attacking—”

“Or torture her,” Gus answers helpfully “until she breaks. And tells them _everything.”_

“If you don’t have anything useful to add then shut the fuck up.” Steve says through gritted teeth.

“He’s right, though,” Clint says morosely, staring at a spot on the table “they’ll destroy her. She wont spill, she’s too professional for that, but,” he looks up, and then away.

Gus’ fingers beat out a rhythm on the table, irritating and persistent. “Wait,” he says “we need to wait, because I talked to Lana. She was going to the coronation, she was _invited —_ most likely so Diana could rub my apparent death in her face, but still — she will have inside intel.”

“That’s great,” Clint says “that’s really helpful, because by the time your _girlfriend_ gets back to us, Natasha will be _dead_ you sanctimonious, magnanimous, virgin-tight _asshole—”_

_“Ouch,”_ Gus says blandly, scrolling through his phone “I’m offended. Vent, if it helps, I’m easy.”

“Can we kill him?” Clint says, plaintively “He’s going to get us killed, Steve, every idea he’s had has been _shit,_ it’s his fault we let Natasha go in the first place, it’s his fault _Tony_ got into this in the first place, he’s a monster and he’s sitting at our coffee table.”

Briefly, Gus’ eyes meet Steve’s. There’s more than that, they both know.

“Gus stays.” Steve says with finality, because for some reason they still listen to him.

“I could take down a few,” Bruce says “they wouldn’t be able to get past my skin, I’d be strong enough to break past, maybe smash my way down into the,” he frowns “the dungeon.”

“True,” Gus says, taking out a cigarette “but you run the risk of burying and Ant and Natasha alive. That, and who knows how many of us it will take to bring you down. If there’s a heightened crowd for the coronation then there’ll be vampires to spare.”

“But he could do it,” Steve says “the point is that he could, if we needed him to.”

“If it got desperate.” Bruce adds.

“Which it is.” Clint finishes.

Steve rubs his eyes. “You can’t talk like that,” he says “we can’t, look, we can’t get defeatist now.”

“In fairness,” Bruce says calmly “there’s a very high chance that one of our team is dead and the other immobile with pain, so.”

“That’s not helping,” Steve snaps “what, what is _wrong_ with you all, why aren’t you—”

“I’m actually going with the Captain on this one,” Gus intones from his seat “you two are being pathetically apathetic to all of this.”

“As opposed to pathetically apathetic to everything.” Clint interjects.

“Shut up,” Steve says “both of you, shut your fucking mouths.”

Silence. And then.

“So I propose a plan,” Gus says “plan C, seeing as the other two failed brilliantly.”

“Which is?” Bruce says, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure yet. I’m just waiting for my sweet little Lana to get back to me.”

“Fantastic, go fuck yourself.” Clint says, turning to Steve.

 

* * *

Natasha awakes to an aching all over her body.

She’s stiff in all the wrong places. She blinks, tries to clear her head, tries to place herself, but she’s too groggy, dazed, _concussion,_ she manages slowly. Thoughts roll over her head and then stutter to a close.

She shifts, back aching, tests her ankles, her wrists. The crack of handcuffs: she’s tied, somehow. She shifts again, tugs experimentally, and finds, even though her brain is turning round and round, that she is sitting up, on the floor.

Slowly, the feel of bars pressing against her back registers in her mind. She is in a cage, one hand is bound to one of the bars by the handcuffs threaded over the metal. She sits slumped, head heavy, legs folded in a sprawl beneath her.

But she is alive.

She cracks open her eyes, minutely, only for the assault of light to cause her to groan, head tilted back into the space between two bars. The head scratches against the metal uncomfortably, it feels strangely light, empty, and when she shifts she realises the absence of the weight on her shoulders, the air on her scalp.

Her hair is gone.

Diana, probably. Natasha doesn’t mourn. Hair grows back, brain cells don’t.

There’s a scuffling somewhere in the cage. The sound of nails being scraped against a concrete floor, a whine.

She is not alone.

“Tony,” she whispers, and her head feels like it’s spinning on an axis, she can’t quite think straight “Tony.”

She cracks open her eyes, groans, forces them to look past what she knows is low-light to the curled figure in the corner. Or, not curled, crouched, on the balls of it’s feet, dressed only in cotton pants and with spirals curling round his torso from the pattern on his back.

It’s eyes are dark. Inky. Every inch of what was once dark irises and white cornea covered in deep black, empty, soulless, and what was once Tony isn’t really, not now, because Natasha has seen him like this before, and she knows better than most that the monster inside will not be stopped by the thought that Natasha is a teammate, especially after she spent two days dragging knives over it’s skin.

“Please don’t eat me.” She says, eyes screwed with pain as movement jars her head “Just, Tony,” she says, reasoning, the best she can do it try to reason with it “it’s me, it’s Natasha.”

It blinks. Slowly, the thought occurs to her that she has been unconscious for a long time and he hasn’t yet attacked. Maybe, _maybe,_ he could be in there somewhere.

Natasha remembers vaguely lying trapped on the floor of the helicarrier as Bruce’s pained form shifts from pink to green, muscles snapping, skin bulging. It’s funny how history repeats itself, she thinks.

“You’re,” she blinks, shakes her head, tries to clear away the pain, the fog “you’re hungry,” she says, and she can hear the plaintive fear in her own voice “you’re hungry, you haven’t eaten. It’s okay. You— you’re in pain. I’m sorry.” She says, shifting backwards.

As she moves, it crouches lower, one hand braced on the floor. It’s impossible to track it’s eye movements, there’s no pupil, no iris, she’s left blind and it’s movements are the only tell.

She won’t call this thing Tony. She won’t.

It makes a clicking noise in the back of it’s throat, head cocked to the side. A shudder; and then it licks it’s cracked, bloody lips.

Tony’s body is broken in places Natasha doesn’t want to think about. His face, swollen, bloodied, his torso bruised, caved in. He keeps shifting on his feet, obviously pained, and he keeps his hands pressed against the floor between his legs, balanced.

Natasha does not stand a chance. That is why Diana has left her hear. Too busy to deal with her, or simply unwilling, she has left Tony to kill her. Killing two birds with one stone, really.

“Tony,” she whispers, voice terse as she shifts, as Tony inhales “Tony, it’s me, it’s _Natasha._ Don’t, fuck, _stay there._ ”

It whines, _Tony_ whines, shuffles closer. His swollen lips slip open revealing bloodied canines. 

“ _Don’t.”_ She says, and God, she tries to demand it, tries to keep firm, but she hears, she _feels,_ the fear slipping into her voice, backs up further against the bars, one hand coming round to grasp at her hand. What good would getting free of the cuffs do? She would still be trapped.

Tony moves fluidly, like a predator.

Natasha holds her breath.

He purrs, almost, as he slips forward. His muscles shift, lithe, but Natasha hears the grinding of bone.

She wants to throw up, but does not dare move.

It’s close. One hand, one of it’s hand, curls gently round her ankle. 

It tilts it’s head.

“Please,” Natasha says, plea bubbling from her lips “Tony.” She whispers, voice cracked, barely there.

She doesn’t want to die this way.

Time slows, or maybe it’s the concussion. Either way, she becomes acutely aware of the pressure on her ankle. Of the dust that floats gently in the light. Of the holes where Tony’s eyes should be as they bore into her skull.

It leans closer, one hand braced on her thigh, the other on her head, pulling back, baring. She is going to die.

Hot breath. Blood, wet and thick, from old beating and internal wounds, drips onto her neck.

Eyes so dark space is almost lighter.

She breaths, a broken breath, her last breath, and she will not cry.

She will not cry.

 

 

 

And then.

Fingers, it’s fingers, pressed into it’s own mouth. It coughs and blood soaks the skin, fingers wet and dripping with congealed liquid.

A hand moves up, Tony’s hand, to her jaw, grips, and she opens.

He tilts his head. Questioning.

A choice, then.

Die. Or be killed.

It’s no choice at all, really.

He paints her lips with blood, and she swallows.

 

* * *

Clint shakes, although he hides it well.

The vampire is talking. Gus is talking, and he’s saying things that Clint does not want to hear. Or rather, at least not from him.

“She says it’s been postponed,” Gus says, voice low “she says that Diana’s moved the whole coronation back by _months,_ if it even happens at all. All invitations have been withdrawn and the whole site is on lockdown.”

“What does that mean?” Bruce interjects “What does that mean for us?”

“It means,” Gus continues “that there will be a thousand less vampires to contest with.”

“It means that security will be tight.” Clint warns.

“Yes,” Gus says terse “but we knew that. Forget that, that’s the baseline we were working with anyway. I don’t think you quite comprehend how impossible it would have been to get past hundreds of us.”

“But now what?” Steve says, voice dull “The odds are the same.”

“No,” Gus says firmly “no, I don’t believe that. I think that, now, if we play it right, there is a chance, a small chance admittedly, but a chance that we could get though.”

“Get though and what?” Bruce says “Kill Diana? Find what’s left of Tony and Natasha, if anything at all?”

Gus stops. “If,” he says, quietly “you don’t want to help your friends, I can leave. I have no reason to stay.”

“It’s bright outside,” Clint says lazily “you kinda do.”

“He’s right.” Steve says, grudgingly “Ah, fuck it, he’s right. We do this now, we take the chance we’ve been given. The faster we move the less time they have to regroup, the higher the chance that Natasha will still be in one piece.”

“That’s it?” Clint says slowly, but he starts to stand. “We’re going to go?”

“How long will it take to fly by quinjet?” Steve asks.

Gus shrugs. “Five? Five and a half?”

“Fine,” Steve says “good. Bruce, suit up. Clint, get your arrows ready, we’re going.”

Bruce chuckles. Clint smiles. There is literally nothing funny about this situation. Four of them taking on four hundred. Their best friends trapped, tortured. And their chances of survival at 0.12%.

But they smile anyway. There’s no humour there, it’s all feral, all animalistic. Revenge. The chance to go down fighting. 

In the time in-between preparing, Steve casts his thoughts to Tony. The man he loves.

He’s coming, Steve is coming, and he will find him. After this, when all of this has finished, he will take him home, and he will make love to him like he has wanted for so long. They will survive.

He will not think about him bloody and bruised and broken. He will not think of that. Instead, he imagines Diana’s face breaking under the weight of his shield.

 

* * *

 

 

Natasha had thought she had known pain, once.

 

She was wrong.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW it's a shitty filler chapter and it's really short but i had to just get this stuff out the way. Obviously, next chapter will be all the action stuff, so maybe four more chapters? Idk, my plans usually change.
> 
> As usual, comments on how you think the characters and plot are playing out are l o v e d!!!!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was so long coming.
> 
> and, uh, sorry in advance.

 It was small. The aerial view of the compound showed only a stone shack, nothing more. Hidden in a forest, it would not look entirely out of place in a children’s fairytale. If said fairytale was a story of homicide, torture, and homo-erotic vampires.

“Keep the perimeter clear,” Steve says “we need to keep back, any closer and they’ll be able to detect us. Remember, these guys have senses like firecrackers, one wrong step and chances are we’re dead.”

“We haven’t forgotten.” Clint says, eyeing Gus balefully.

“When did you say Lana would arrive?” Steve says, scanning the screens on the quinjet dash.

“Soon.” Gus answers, voice terse.

“Yeah, well we don’t have soon.” Clint snaps back.

They land in a clearing some five miles off. It’s bright, the sun at it’s highest peak in the sky, and Steve must admit, strangely peaceful. Beautiful, even. Steve always had loved forests.

It’ll be a fast run for Gus to get to the bunker without severe burns; they’ve landed him with the best UV gear they have but Gus says it’s nothing like the stuff that Tony made in those six months before this all began.

They run over their plan, over and over and over, and Steve feels his gut tighten reflexively every time he thinks of Tony, of Natasha, every time he thinks that there is a very high chance they may be dead and this is a suicide mission.

Steve would do it. He would risk everything for them. For Tony. But he would not risk his team.

Three of them remain, plus Gus. They cannot afford to lose anymore.

And then the phone rings.

In the silence of the quinjet, Steve blinks. The quinjet phone is _ringing,_ the pager is _ringing,_ someone is calling through and that shouldn’t be possible because the last comm it was connected to was Natasha’s and —

“Answer,” someone says, and Steve doesn’t know who because something is happening and Steve is already there, pressing the open line button, throwing the comm up into air and letting it play and then.

And then.

“Captain,” comes a snarl, visceral, sharp “Captain?”

Steve’s eyes swing to Clint.

“Natasha?”

“Clint.” She says “Yes. Good. I am… I am Natasha.”

Clint moves to open the quinjet door and Steve’s hand slams up to stall him. “Natasha,” he says “Jesus, are you alive? You need to report, what’s happening, is Tony—”

“I’m hungry,” she blurts “I broke the cage, but, fuck,” she gasps and Steve can hear the shiver in her voice “I’m so _hungry!”_ She screams, and Steve hears the wrench of metal, the crumbling of a wall.

Oh God.

“Natasha,” Steve says, carefully “Natasha, are you—”

“A vampire?” And there’s a hint of her old wry tone “Tony changed me. Going to die. He’s hurt. Needs to eat, I need to eat. Found the comm in the corner of room, haven’t been checked on yet but soon. I’m gonna kill them, I’m so hungry, I’m gonna kill them and _eat_ and—”

“Natasha,” Clint’s voice cracks through “Natasha, please—”

“I’ll take them,” she snarls “I’ll take them, I need, I’m going to kill them now, I’m so hungry and I know they have blood I know it and—”

There’s a scream, a high, pain filled scream and the crack of bone.

“My b-back,” Natasha fills in, panting “my back just, my spine is st-st-streching— _ah!”_

“Go,” Steve says “now, we need to go.”

And then the door is opening and he barely hears Gus’ hiss or the roar of the Hulk because now, because, apparently Natasha has been changed, and Tony can’t fight, and if they weren’t dead already they will be when Diana finds them, Tony too weak to fight and Natasha still changing.

Gus had explained that the only way down into the main chambers was through the small shack. But he also said it was like an iceberg. The shack was barely the tip, the actual bunker extends underground, sprawling and vast, with three floors.

The first two are where the vampires live.

The third is where they are keeping Tony.

When Gus had first explained the plan, he had likened it to shaking an ants nest. To dragging your foot over the sandy hole in the ground and dislodging the thousands of crawling creatures in the earth below. What they’ll be doing is placing their bombs at strategic points over the where the bunker lies beneath the earth.

They’re going to bring the roof down on them.

Judging by the map Gus had drawn, they’re explosions should trigger four of the main antechambers on the first floor, enough to both crush a large number and free the rest to sunlight. 

If Gus is correct, which he assures them he is, then there will be only one route down to the second floor. Most of the vampires will congregate there in an attempt to back them off, but with the help of Hulk and UV bombs they’re hoping that at least one of them will make it to the final level.

One of them will be able to make it to Tony.

And Natasha.

 

* * *

Natasha can’t—

She—

A final shudder tears through her body and she rolls, braces her hands on the floor and pushes up on her belly.

God. She’s so hungry. She could eat anything, _everything._ What she wouldn’t give for some hot, wet blood, for something to cool the burn in her throat, the ache in her belly, the extrutiating agony in her teeth.

Everything is in high definition, every sound, every sight, she can hear, God, she can hear everything and she fights to keep her screams in check. So far she’s been lucky, they expected screaming while Tony sucked her dry, but any longer and it would start to sound suspicious.

Tony. Her maker.

There’s a sudden rush of something warm in her chest, something indescribable, as she sees him slumped on the ground. Her maker. They hurt her maker, they, _Diana,_ it was all Diana, that _bitch,_ and she’s going to pay, Natasha will make her pay she will.

Natasha thought she was crawling but she moves too fast to compute. One second she thought about going to Tony’s side and the next she was there, faster than Thor’s lightning, and one hand coming to tug him up by his shoulder.

He lolls against her, completely slack, starved, his eyes aren’t even black, the pupils are a dirty gold, almost brown, faded from their usual ochre.

She holds out her wrist, and Tony sucks.

He gags. It’s not good. She knows it’s probably disgusting, the idea of drinking from another vampire makes her feel sick, and he keeps trying to push away but he needs to eat, he needs to stop being so fussy or he’s going to _die_ or become a vegetable, Natasha doesn’t know, she barely understand her new body as it is, but he needs to eat because they are both getting out of here alive.

She makes him drink until blood is running down the sides of his mouth and he’s choking, eyes suddenly bright, changing to champagne gold like the iris of a camera.

He shudders and pushes her back, springing forward, jumping on the balls of his feet.

“Nnnaghh,” he says, bouncing, one foot to the other, head shaking rapidly “ugh.”

Natasha blinks. “Tony, are you—”

“That is, that is, _holy shit,_ that’s, raghhhh, God, that’s good stuff it’s like, it’s like, it’s all that shit I did back in the 90’s Nat, it’s like—” He shudders, bracing his hands, bouncing, practically vibrating.

“Tony,” Natasha says, “Tony, can you fight? Because I need—”

“To eat! Goddamn, you need to eat, of course you do, you’re probably starving, wow, sorry about that, by the way, I can’t, I’m really fucking juiced, I need to, where’s Diana? Where is she? Can we kill her? I’m gonna kill her, I’m—”

“Tony,” Natasha growls, because he’s acting like an idiot, her maker is an idiot, and they need to _go._

Tony shudders and his muscles _ripple,_ he tenses and then leaps, jumps once, twice, and twists. Natasha hears bones cracking, sees skin stitching itself back together, it’s grotesque, and if Natasha hadn’t once been an assassin, if she hadn’t just had every bone in her body stretch and grow she would probably have throw up.

Tony’s eyes roll back, and when he blinks, they are dark, and inky.

He grins.

And then the world explodes.

 

* * *

There are figures lying, screaming, on what Steve thinks used to be an oak floor.

As the dust clears he makes out bits of arms, heads, feet, all scattered round the rubble. And yet no one attacks.

They’ve won this round.

Gus shudders beside him, feet braced, as what was once his home burns. There are paintings, marble statues, and Steve hears more than one voice calling Gus’ name in a plea for help.

A cracking, a tearing noise of splintering wood, and the floor beneath them begins to shatter.

“Go,” Steve orders, and then Clint is rolling forward, bow braced and leaping off. Clint will stick with Hulk. Out of all of them, he is the most vulnerable.

Gus hisses where sunlight touches his skin and jumps, once, bringing the floor beneath them down and then they’re falling, falling, into a corridor, oak floor and paintings, a red carpet.

Apart from the light from the hole in the ceiling, it’s dark. The lights have gone out.

Lucky they have UV bombsto help.

Steve takes ten, gives the rest to Clint.

“Split up.” He orders “Go with Hulk, take out the floor as best you can, stay safe.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” and then a roar and Clint is launched onto Hulk’s shoulder, smashing round a corner and on into the dark. 

Around them is fire, and Steve can hear screaming, the sound of crushed vampires in pain.

They’re ambushed, then. Four of them, strong, fast, and Steve lets loose one bomb, enough for them to shriek with agony, skin bubbling, melting, as Gus spins, his protected back taking the brunt of the light.

“Lead on,” Steve grits, because he doesn’t trust Gus, never has, never will and and he keeps his fingers tight on his shield.

Gus is silent as they track though the halls. In the distance, Steve hears cracks, and blasts, and screams. He hears a roar.

He hopes Clint is still alive.

He’s stopped when Gus’ hand presses him back against a wall, his finger rising to press against his lips.

_Be quiet._

Steve stops breathing. He holds himself perfectly still.

“ _Captain,”_ Diana breathes “Captain, you can come out now.”

Steve wavers. And then Gus moves, straight out into the open.

“Gus!” Diana crows “What a surprise! You’re supposed to be dead.” She finishes flatly.

“I don’t—” Gus throws a desperate glance at Steve “I don’t want this to happen. I’m sorry, Steve. I can’t do this.”

Steve braces his shield. He’s not shocked, he refuses to be shocked, but there is a sick, hot anger churning away in his belly.

“What’s this?” Diana sighs, sickly sweet, burned face twisting “Has little Gustav had a change of heart? What a surprise. _That’s_ never happened before.”

“Bitch.” Steve growls.

“Oh, Captain,” Diana says, sashaying closer “why don’t you just hit me with one of your bombs and be done with it? Go on.”

Steve’s fingers twitch. He could do it. He could bring down Diana.

Gus, too.

The moment passes and Diana pouts. “Aww,” she simpers “can’t do it? Can’t bring yourself to kill little old me?”

Steve brings the shield to crack against her head but she moves, fast, too fast and it’s gone, pinned against the wall, two hands coming to press against his and he lifts his knee, kicks Diana away as best he can so she bucks backwards, give a grunt of pain, but her hands never leave his.

“Gus,” Steve hisses “don’t be such a fucking ass, _do something—_ ”

But Gus’ eyes glare, empty, torn, and he steps back.

“ _Gus!”_ Steve grits again, and he turns his head to the side because Diana is close, too close, she’s smelling the pulse point on his neck.

“You killed them, Captain,” she grins “you killed my _people.”_ And she says it in a sing-song voice, lilting, childish “And I am so, so sorry that when I kill you, Anthony won’t be here to watch.”

She kicks his shield backwards, out into the dark gloom of the corridor. Somewhere, Steve can smell smoke.

Burning. Fire.

The roaring has stopped.

Is Steve going to die like this? He feels like this might be it.

He fights against Diana’s hand, groaning as he tries to break through the vice-like grip, but she just snaps at him, smiles, her tongue coming to lick the shell of his ear.

“Tony screams so pretty, Captain,” she whispers “he’s such a nice little pet.”

Steve cracks his head against hers and she stumbles back, momentarily disorientated. It’s not enough time to grab his shield, but he lands a kick to her breastbone, causing her to fly back. 

She rolls backwards and Steve’s heart pounds, it’s close, too close, and Gus is nowhere to be found.

Diana grins, and wipes blood from her mouth, shoulders haunched. “It’s okay,” she simpers “I like to play with my food.”

She swipes, and Steve deflects, the vibrations travelling down his arm with bone-shattering force, making his grit his teeth as Diana presses down, tries to bring him to his knees.

He swings out one foot, momentarily losing his balance but knocking Diana off her feet. She falls back, braces on one hand and bounces, feet coming to twist around Steve’s waist, dragging him down.

He falls, and he’s on top of her and her legs tighten round the small of his back, rolling them so she’s on top, eyes black and inky and monstrous, and bearing down his neck.

She bites, and Steve feels the skin tear.

 

* * *

Tony doesn’t recognise this part of the bunker but that’s okay because he doesn’t recognise much right now.

Acid. Tony feels like he’s on acid.

Simply put, he is tripping balls.

He tries to point this out to Natasha but she pushes him away, snarls, and breaks the neck of another one of the vampires, and Tony knows they’re vampires, he knows that, it’s just that they all look a lot like Tony’s fourth grade teacher and it’s really hard to kill them because Mr Jonas was a really nice guy.

He swings a hand and when it connects with a skull it’s not blood that comes out it’s like this pink bubbly stuff, which is cool, and does not taste nice at _all._ Tony wonders, vaguely, if anyone has ever really experimented with this before, with drinking another vampires blood before, because this isn’t like the coffee or the other stuff this feels like he’s in some whole other universe entirely.

The floor beneath his feet keeps shifting, over and over, tumbling beneath his feet, or maybe that’s just him being clumsy, he doesn’t know.

There’s a fire around them, actual hot, red fire, and Tony is burning a bit but it’s nothing he can’t deal with, he’s dealt with so much worse these past weeks, what with Ross and then the broken back and then the, you know, carving and beating.

He misses Steve. He really does. When the roof fell down and the whole building shook he kinda hoped it was Steve coming to find him.

“Tony,” Natasha screams “duck!” 

Duck? Where? A duck would be way nicer than Natasha’s thick, disgusting blood.

A roar; a really, really large roar and Tony is pushed backwards, literally, he flies backwards, crashing into a wall that cracks at the force.

His head jars and he groans. He’s covered in rubble, that’s not good, and he tries to shake loose, peering up at the, what is that exactly, big and green and, the jolly green giant, oh yeah, that was a thing, that was.

“Clint?” He hears, and the name registers deep somewhere in his brain, _Clint Barton,_ and the jolly green giant, that’s the _Hulk_ and Clint Barton and the Hulk are on his team, the Avengers, and so is Steve, and so it Steve and so is

“Steve?” He calls, scrabbling onto his feet “Where’s Steve? Where is Steve? Steve!” He calls, and he rushes forward, takes Barton by the shoulders, shakes “Where is he? Where? Where? Where?”

Barton smells good, very good, but it’s easy to press aside. Is Steve here? Is he? Tony feels like the world is spinning over and over and over and he tries to blink his head clear.

“He’s tripping,” Natasha says, and she’s all over Clint, is she eating him? Because Tony is hungry too “I gave him my blood, apparently it fucks us up, and _oh my God,_ you smell so good—”

“Here,” Barton says quickly, drawing out blood as Hulk holds Tony tight in his hand to stop him from lunging “Drink. We thought you might— we thought it would come in handy.”

Tony whines when Natasha downs it one because that’s not fair, that’s actually not fair, he’s so hungry too and he was tortured, he deserves it more than she does.

Clint rips open another baggy with his teeth and yanks Tony’s head back. “Nice to see you, man.” he says, and his eyes are twisting out of his head, melting down his face so Tony howls as he pours the blood into his mouth.

And then he kinda comes back to himself. The walls stop spinning. He blinks.

“Uh,” he says, shaking his head loose, and there is blood everywhere, and what he thought was Mr Jonas? Yeah, not so much, because there are vampire limbs scattered around the floor of the dungeon and that must of been Natasha because Tony is vaguely remembering that he was pretty violent too when he was first turned.

Oh God. Did he turn Natasha?

The world feels like it’s melting again except this time it’s held up by Hulk and the everything comes spinning into focus, Clint and Natasha, lips pressed together tight and pale bloody hands fisting in his hair, the tight grin skin of Hulk around his midsection, the aches and pains all over his body and

Steve. Steve is here.

“Let go,” he says, banging against Hulk “let go, where’s Steve, where’s, hello? Barton? _Barton,_ where is Steve?”

Clint breaks away, dazed, and Natasha tries to yank him back down, and Tony sees where the spot where his jaw meets his neck has two neat puncture holes, and Tony hasn’t got time to think on that, he just needs to go and find his Steve, _his,_ Oh God, because if Clint and Hulk are here, then—

“He’s with Gus,” Clint says “they were looking for you.”

“Were they coming here? Were they going to find us?”

Clint nods.

“Then where are they? Why are you here and not Steve?” And Tony knows he’s erratic, maybe it’s the blood, maybe it’s the fear, but something is wrong, he can feel it, something is draining away and it’s instinct, Tony feels it in once what was a healthy, singing bond, Steve is dying.

He runs. 

It’s like a silver wire tugging him forward, it lets him go where he needs to, showing him the way.

He leaps over rubble, he ignores the scrabbling dismembered limbs of vampires that grasp after him and the fire that burns his back because Steve is dying, Steve is—

_“Steve!”_ He cries, and he does cry it, it’s a great rasping thing because he’s just lying there, body broken and bleeding and Diana is perched on top of him like he’s just a _thing,_ sucking her fingers, grinning at him manically.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he says, and something deep inside Tony snaps, because he was never a monster, he was never capable of evil, evil things until this moment “I’m _going to kill you!”_

When Diana stands, she does it with grace, hips shifting and limbs dancing. Even when she fights, she does it with poise.

Tony isn’t so hung up on those kind of things, so he just lunges.

And there’s no contest.

Maybe it’s because Steve is dying. Maybe that’s why he lets it happen.

Maybe that’s why he lets Diana’s knife pierce his abdomen.

There is no pain, strangely, but everything does slow down.

_he falls. he is falling._

Diana laughs and wipes her blade on his back.

But Steve is there. 

Steve.

He’s all cold, which isn’t right. Steve was always so warm, he was always so—

Blood bubbles to his lips. He feels it, hot on his chin, and it’s spilling down, marring Steve’s perfect, pearly flesh. 

“I found you,” his voice cracks over Steve’s body “I found—” He coughs, and presses a hand to his bloody abdomen.

With what remains of his strength, Tony curls beside him.

“Steve,” he whispers “Steve.”

There’s no reply, and Tony draws the Captain’s arm around him, lets himself imagine that—

There’s a hole in the ceiling, Tony thinks distantly, and he can see the moon.

Once, Steve had promised to take him out on a date. This is okay, kinda. This could be a date.

"C'mon, Steve," his voice bubbles "c'mon, hold me, hold me properly, we never, please, hold me."

Steve’s arm is loose around his shoulder, and Tony rests his head on his chest. He’s still breathing, he’s still breathing, but it’s so shallow, and he doesn’t tighten his arm over Tony like he wishes he would. “Steve,” he whispers again, fingers scraping against his bloody neck “Steve, please.”

There is no reply.

Tony coughs blood. His mind is slipping.

“Is this a date?” He asks, voice bleary “Please, Steve, is this our date?”

It’s okay, maybe. They’re both dying, but their friends are safe.

Tony can pretend. This is their date. This can be their date. 

He lets himself imagine that Steve is laughing, and that he’s pulling him closer. That they are happy. He lets himself imagine, just for a moment, that Steve is his and he is loved.

Tony was never loved. He was never loved, ever. He had always been too lonely. And now—

And in that moment, in his final, dying breaths, Tony sees so much.

Sunlight, dappled over a field. Flowers. A lake, and stars. A young boy with brown hair running through dusky New York alleys, a flash of a fire in the centre of a camp, red lipstick and snow. He sees stretches of mountains, and he sees himself, back then, in his workshop, hair greasy and grinning.

In his last moments, he sees a stretch of highway. It’s raining, and he cuts a lonely figure out there in the dark.

But Steve shows him. He shows him that he was loved, if only for the shortest time,  _someone loved him._

Tony cries, and Steve’s arm tightens, just the smallest bit, around his shoulders, blood falling wet and thick over his belly, pulsing from Steve’s neck. .

“Tony,” Steve murmurs.

"Steve," Tony whispers.

It's warm. The sky is high above him.

A gentle breeze.

Steve.

They sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> No okay, it's obviously not. It's two am and this ran away with me.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY FOR BEING SO SHITTY AND LITERALLY NOT UPDATING IN A MONTH I AM ACTUAL SCUM but please enjoy also warning for death and maybe suicidal ideation, just in case.

Gus runs.

He runs because he is a coward, and because he is a killer, and because at the end of the day his life has always been worthless.

“Lana!” He screams, and he runs “Turn back! Go!”

She stalls, blinks. “Gus?” She says, body shimmering in the low light “Gus, what—”

“Go.” He says, and he takes her hand, drags her along. They’re done here, there is nothing left to do, they will go and hide. The council is finished, Diana is finished, Gus saw their Hulk, this is nothing to do with him anymore and if the Captain dies then so be it.

Ant could live. Ant will live. He doesn’t need to forgive him but as long as he’s safe, Gus could maybe live with himself, this way.

Lana follows him. She always does. It’s touching, maybe, if it didn’t scare him so much. He doesn’t know what to do with so much devotion.

There’s a roar from behind them, and Gus bites down the hysterical urge to laugh. “We’re leaving,” he says, and his hands find Lana’s face “we’re going to go, and we’ll be safe. No more council, no more lost civilisations and super-soldiers. We’re going to be free.”

Lana stares at him, her hands sliding over his till they rest between their chests. “Ant,” she whispers “what about, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

“He’ll be okay,” Gus says, tipping his head forward “they’ll all be okay. They’re fine, without us.”

Lana shakes her head. “Why,” she murmurs “why would you leave them?”

Gus draws back. “I couldn’t do it.” He croaks. “I’m sorry.”

“Couldn’t what?” Lana says, taking his hand back “Couldn’t help? Couldn’t— ”

“Couldn’t kill.” Gus says, and his head dips. “I saw, they destroyed the council, the entire citadel. All those, my brothers. They weren’t all bad, Lana, you know that. They weren’t all — even if they were,” he says, and he turns back, head ducking and skin flush in the moonlight “even if they were _evil,_ or sadists, it was my home.”

“No,” Lana murmurs “it wasn’t.”

Gus shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He whispers “We’re okay. We’re safe. In ten years we won’t even remember this, I swear. We have eternity.”

Gus wonders if Lana is disapproving. If she hates him for what he’s done. It doesn’t matter, because she can’t leave him, and she won’t, but still. It would be easier if she understood.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

“We can go,” he says again “we can be free.”

Lana stares at him. She’s too kind. Kindness is what is making her despise him, right now.

It’s also what’s making her take his hand and run.

 

* * *

The crumbling halls of what was once the home of the council are quiet.

Which is strange, maybe. Maybe there should be a counter-attack. Maybe there should be screams. 

Natasha can hear everything in perfect, high definition clarity. She hears hears the leaves rustling on the trees outside, she hears the crackle of broken stone.

She hears heartbeats. Not many, because there are so few humans here.

But still.

She hears Clint’s.

Steady, firm. She feels it reverberating through her bones.

She hears Hulk’s.

Faster, louder, too much. It holds no attraction to her.

She hears —

One beat, a slow, laborious thunk. Five second later, another. It’s the sound not unlike a trapped drowning man banging against walls of his prison with every second passed without oxygen.

It’s a heart about to give up.

And it’s Steve’s.

Time is slowing, everywhere. She screams at someone, and then Clint is there. There’s a roar, and awful, ear-rending roar, and the Hulk screams, because there is Steve, bled out and pale, unmoving, not dead, not dead, not dead, but will be and then there’s —

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

It’s her maker, her maker with skin white and red veins creeping up his face and eyes open and unseeing, fixed upon a spot in the ceiling where one would just be able to see the night sky, and he’s dead, dead dead dead, Natasha can feel it in her bones and it’s like being ripped apart because _that’s her maker,_ more than that, _it’s Tony,_ that’s Tony Stark and the impossible has happened and he’s dead on the ground, dead, not, that can’t be —

Clint’s calling her over, he’s screaming something and she’s blinking slowly, and the world moves like viscous liquid, dripping around her, the sounds muted and movements stilted. Steve’s still bleeding, but that’s a lot of blood, and it’s calling to her, to, oh wow, to just sink her teeth there would be --

But he’s wounded. Sloppy seconds. Clint’s holding his neck, trying to staunch the flow, and _Natasha’s just standing there —_

Everything comes back in a rush, the screaming, the smell of smoke, the smell of _blood,_ every sound and every smell assaulting her senses, and then the smell of death, the smell of the death of her maker is like a siren and she’s kneeling, hands roaming over his body, pressing hands to his belly where the knife would have entered, severing his life force and —

_Diana._

She did this, and she will die.

But not now.

“Is he…” Natasha presses her hands to cup Tony’s face.

Clint nods.

“Oh God,” Natasha says “Oh my God.”

“Steve’s bleeding out,” Clint says, and that’s him, always so practical, always so steadfast, even when the world is falling apart. “He hasn’t got long left, we need —

“Quick,” Natasha interrupts “Hulk, take him, _run,_ please there’s still a chance, _go—_ ” she tries to wrench Tony free “Steve let go,” she whispers “Steve he’s dead, please, let go, he’s gone.”

There’s a low groan, a garbled cough, and Steve’s brow twists.

“C’mon, Tony,” Clint says, gently tugging the body away from where it’s clutching Steve like, well, like it’s the only thing that matters, like he’s a dying man clinging to a raft at sea, except he’s already dead and the raft it broken.

His body is still warm. He could easily be sleeping.

A wisp of air makes it’s way past Steve’s lips as the body is yanked from his grasp. “Tss,” he manages, and then Hulk is taking him carefully into his arms, hopefully to the quinjet where Bruce Banner will be able to take over.

Before it’s too late.

Natasha stares back down at Tony.

Tony Stark. Is that Tony Stark? Really? Can he really be dead? How, it doesn’t match up in her mind that Tony, he, he’s invincible, any moment now he’ll sit up and laugh and make a joke because that’s what he does and dying, dying is not something he is _allowed_ to do.

“Natasha,” Clint says softly, and there’s a hand at the back of her neck “we need to go. Diana — ”

“I’m going to kill her.” She whispers.

“I know,” Clint says, and strangely, Natasha can _hear_ his tears hitting the floor. “But she’ll kill us first if we don’t leave.”

“Tony.” She says, as if that’s an excuse, or a reason to stay.

“I know.” Clint repeats. “I know.”

Natasha blinks. “Where’s Gus.”

Clint’s hand tightens over his back. “I… don’t know.”

Natasha wants to scream. But she feels like it would disturb Tony. It’s his death, she should at least try to be respectful.

“Have you, have you got something to,” Natasha runs a hand over her hair, only to remember that Diana stole it. “Something to cover him.”

There’s ripping, and then Clint is taking down one of the heavy red curtains used to cover the paintings in the hall. It’s dusty and stuck with plaster, but it’s a fitting colour, and velvet material.

They cover up the body, tucking it round his head and torso. It’s not long enough to entirely cover his feet.

They stand there.

“You could carry him.” Clint says finally. “Or I can.”

Natasha doesn’t want to have to crouch down to gently take him in her arms. She’s seen too many people die.

Most of them weren’t even her friends. This is… it’s too personal. Too much. Natasha doesn’t know how to deal with this, or how to make this better.

He’s dead. Tony Stark is dead, and Steve is bleeding out, and in feels like it’s her fault, maybe, because there’s so much more she could have done.

But she takes him anyway.

Clint is a warm presence by her side. His blood is like a soothing trickle in her ear, like white noise or a babbling brook. She walks slowly, so not to leave him undefended.

 

* * *

Later, they will tell Steve that they lost.

There is losing, and then there’s this. Not only did they fail to save Tony, they found him dead. Steve was near death. Natasha is no longer human.

Out of their team, one is dead, another in a coma, one missing and likely the cause behind their team’s demise and another now a vampire. They destroyed the council, but they didn’t get Diana.

Now, they wait. They wait for Steve to wake up. A hospital is out of the question since he is still wanted for blowing up Ross’ base. As it happens, Tony has been legally dead for months.

They don’t know where to put Tony’s body. They can’t quite bury him yet, because they can’t leave Steve alone in the tower, and because, really, they want him to be able to say his final goodbye.

Natasha once would have been unable to understand the bond between Steve and Tony. The rope that’s tied them together over the past months. Now, she has Clint.

Losing him would be…

She wonders if they should have let Steve die.

It’s difficult, right now. She thirsts after Clint’s blood but he doesn’t have a healing factor to make up for it. They’ve settled for taking small amount and mixing it with bagged blood from their supplies. So far, it’s working, although it doesn’t quite take the edge off like it should.

But she’s learning. No sunlight, no food, no drink. Move carefully or you’ll go faster than you mean to. 

But.

Natasha had been fast before. She had been strong. She had been beautiful.

Now?

It’s shame she won’t be able to continue her job, after this. A real shame. Because now, she’s the best, quite literally, at everything. Natasha remembers her first look at Tony after he was changed, the youthful skin, the golden eyes, the thick brown hair and silken flesh. Now, she looks at herself, and honestly, it’s not entirely displeasing.

But there will be time for that later. There will be time to sort out her career, what she’s going to do, how to hide, it’ll all sort itself out.

Nothing changes the fact that Tony’s dead.

He’s lying here. There had been a white sheet over his body,but Natasha had drawn it off. Or maybe she hadn’t. She can’t quite remember. She’s been sitting here a while.

She can’t stop _staring_ at him. His body hasn’t started to decompose, or at least, not by human standards. Something that could be similar to rigour mortis has started to take place, his limbs feel like they’re carved of stone, and he’s _cold,_ it’s like touching ice.

Now, Natasha sees where Diana had carved into his back. She can’t — Natasha realises that she can’t comprehend that pain. She can’t. The idea of lying down while someone draws knives over your skin and flays your flesh and —

She had helped, she remembers. She had beat him, cut him to the bone. All for the sake of what.

Christ, what had been the point?

His face is still broken from where Michael has beaten him. He’s missing quite a few teeth. Natasha can see because his lips are parted, gently.

His eyes are still swollen shut and his bruising is extortionate. He probably still has bone that never got a chance to heal.

Of course, there’s a wound in his belly.

Natasha hasn’t found her Achilles’ heel, yet. She will, and she has to, because it’s not good to have one space so open to attack. It’s just hard for her to do anything much, now.

Tony was her maker. Maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why she’s taking it so hard, why she feels a little more cold inside than usual.

“I called Pepper,” Clint murmurs from the doorway “she was…”

“I’m sorry.” Natasha says. “I should’ve done that.”

“You can do Rhodes.”

Natasha rubs her eyes. “I don’t want him to be dead. I don’t want to have to tell Steve that he’s dead. I don’t want, I don’t want the world to go on while he’s dead.”

“Natasha.”

She turns. “It’s not fair.”

“You were the one who told me that life wasn’t.”

She smiles without mirth. “It’s a waste.”

“Every death is a waste.”

“No,” she says, standing and walking to the table “no. Some people deserve to die. Life’s a waste for them. But it’s not fair that he had to go this way. That the past seven months have been… torturous, for him.”

“No,” Clint agrees. “I know.”

She traces her finger round his features. “We should close his eyes.” She murmurs.

 

* * *

When Steve wakes up, it’s dark.

There are people by his bedside. They’re talking. It’s his team.

Why is he alive? How did he survive?

“Tony,” he rasps “Tony.”

He remembers his weight against him, he remembers Tony holding him in his arms while he bled out after Diana ripped his neck apart. He needs him, now. He needs to see him. He needs to know this wasn’t a waste, because he’s okay, they’re all okay and he has _Tony._

Finally. Finally, after all this time.

He coughs again, wrenches the tubes from his nose. “Tony.” He groans, and he moves his limbs, uncoordinated. 

“Easy,” Bruce says “take it easy. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Tony,” he repeats, because he should be here. He should be the first person Steve sees so he can hold him in his arms and never let go.

“Lie down, Steve,” Bruce says, and then there are two firm hands on his shoulders “relax.”

He complies, eyelids fluttering. His throat is so _dry,_ he’s desperate for some water.

Bruce delicately holds a cup to his mouth and lets it trickle down his throat. He coughs, shaking his head. He feels like he was hit with a sledgehammer.

“Where’s Tony?” He manages to croak and Bruce turns away.

“Bruce?” He says, and then Natasha’s hand is on his knee.

“Nat,” he says “oh God, are you — ”

“Tony changed me,” Natasha nods “he changed me. He saved my life.”

“I’m sorry I shouted,” Steve blurts “I’m sorry.”

Natasha looks pained. “Don’t be.” She says, lightly patting his knee.

“Where’s Tony,” he says, trying to peer past the door. “Is he, is he hunting? He can take some of mine, if he — ”

“Steve,” Natasha whispers “Steve I’m so sorry.”

He frowns. Steve’s head _hurts._ He feels weak. He needs to sleep.

“Why?” He murmurs, trying to sit himself up “Why?”

Natasha looks up, and briefly catches Bruce’s eye. “Steve, please. I don’t, I’m not sure how to say this. I’m sorry.”

And it’s true. This used to be easy for her. Everything is a bit too personal, nowadays. 

“Natasha?” Steve asks, and he’s shaking his head.

Oh God, he knows. He knows, and he’s just.

“Steve,” Natasha says, one last time “I’m so sorry, I — but Tony didn’t make it. He didn’t make it, Steve.”

Steve blinks. He narrows his eyes and frowns. “Didn’t make it where?”

“Steve,” Natasha says “you know where. You know. I’m sorry. Tony’s dead.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says slowly “okay. But that’s not what I’m asking. Where’s Tony?”

Natasha looks at Bruce, who stares back, mouth twisted in a silent horror.

“He’s… outside. On the table.”

“Is he coming in?”

“No,” Natasha whispers “no, because he’s dead.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re not — ” he frowns with frustration “stop it. You’re not making sense, where’s _Tony?”_

Natasha blinks, and sits back. “It’s okay, Steve. It’s okay.”

“Where is he?” Steve asks again, and this time he croaks it. “Where — ”

“He’s gone.”

“No,” Steve repeats, stubbornly “no, he’s not — ”

“I’m so sorry.”

Steve starts to cry. “Where is he?”

“It’s not your fault, Steve, I swear. He’s gone, now.”

“No,” he says again, and he keeps shaking his head “send him in, I want to see him.”

“You can’t.” Natasha says, voice quiet, voice patient, as Bruce carefully sets down his remote with shaking hands and leaves the room.

“Tony!” Steve calls, staring past her head to look at the door “Tony!” And his voice catches on a sob. “Tony — ”

“Shh,” Natasha soothes “shh, Steve, it’s okay.”

“Tony,” he sobs “Tony, Tony.”

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps “I’m so sorry.”

“Where is he?” Steve keeps crying “Where is he? Where is he?”

“Steve — ”

The man curls over himself like he’s suffering from a real, physical pain. “Tony.” he sobs again. 

“Don’t cry,” Natasha inhales “please, don’t cry.”

The Captain sobs. He draws the sheet up over his legs and bring it to his face, holds it there. 

He cries like a child.

“I, I’ll just — ”

Steve’s hands tighten on the mattress. “Tony,” he wails “oh God, oh _God.”_

Natasha doesn’t know what to do, and the Captain falls apart.

 

* * *

They move his body.

They’ve found out that Steve will get changed in the morning as long as he can see the body. So, it now rests in it’s old bedroom.

Tony’s old bedroom, that is.

He still hasn’t decomposed, but the red veins creeping up his skin have increased. The wound in his belly is crusted over with some kind of white bacteria.

He needs to be buried. 

It’s time to let go.

But Steve won’t let them.

Every morning, he’ll eat breakfast in the kitchen. Normally with someone else there, just in case.

Then, he makes his way to Tony’s room. He sits as the bed.

And sits. And sits.

He won’t move until midday, which is when he goes for lunch and toilet break.

Then he’s back.

Sometimes he’ll have Jarvis play music, but mostly he just holds Tony’s hand.

They don’t know what to do. They don’t know how to solve this. This isn’t just depression, this is something else entirely. This is an almost near-catatonic state of living. He breathing and walking and eating but —

But he’s not alive.

Once, Clint caught him holding Tony’s corpse, tucking it under his arm, like two lovers resting together.

Another time, he saw him pressing kisses to Tony’s hand and holding it to his chest.

This isn’t healthy. This isn’t right.

Clint can understand it, now. He can understand it, because if Natasha died, he would be the same.

It doesn’t mean that they can allow this to continue.

But broaching the subject of burial is taboo. Steve stares at them, blinking, frowning. 

“But,” he swallows “he might wake up.”

“He won’t wake up.” Natasha had explained, softly.

It’s difficult, now. With their Captain’s mental state deteriorating so quickly. With Tony dead. There’s only three of them left. God knows where Thor is. They’re keeping it quiet. For now, they’ll just continue living as they did before. They’ll say that Steve is on the run, and Tony is dead. But it can’t stay that was forever.

Clint and Natasha take solace in one another while Bruce retreats to his lab. He won’t say what he’s working on, but it’s any guess that it’s a way to bring Tony back.

A miracle. They need… they would need a miracle to fix this.

Days pass; nothing does change.

 

* * *

“Tony,” Steve whispers.

It’s easier, here at night. They’re not watching him and thinking he’s insane. He’s not, he knows he’s not. He’s just sad. Really, really sad.

“Tony,” he says again. He’s been sneaking here at night when he can, when all the others are in bed. It’s difficult to get time alone, nowadays. They all seem to think he wants to kill himself. He doesn’t, not really. He’s still Steve Rogers.

He doesn’t quite want to give up yet.

He takes Tony’s hand in his, presses it to his lips. “I miss you.” He mumbles.

The corpse continues to stare at nothing.

“I miss everything about you. I miss your jokes. And I miss your voice,” Steve sighs “your _smell._ The way your hair sticks up when you ruffle it. I miss you treating me like an idiot.” He laughs, slightly. 

“Please, Tony,” Steve begs “please, please wake-up.”

_He’s not asleep,_ the voice in his head says.

“Wake up.” Steve says, pushing Tony’s freezing limp heart against his chest. He’s so cold. Steve could warm him up. The should cover him with a blanket or something.

Then again, that feels too much like a shroud.

_Don’t be an idiot, Steve_ the voice in his head says _c’mon, stop it._

It’s Tony, normally. The little voice in his head. It’s not usually as comforting as it could be.

He’s delusional, he knows. He actually does know that. He is aware he’s acting like an insane person. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t — _Tony,_ Tony’s dead, and he was the one thing he had, the one thing he had to look forward to and now he’s _gone._

What did he have, before Tony?

He tries to think back, but it’s coming up blank. Nothing, really. He had work, and he had missions, and that was all. Before Tony he was living his life day to day and then the imprint happened and slowly it was like a candle being lit in front of his eyes.

And now the wax has whittled down to nothing and the flame has disappeared.

Steve sighs. 

He should bury him. It’s time to bury him. It’s not fair to Pepper and Rhodey and all the others. They could fly him out somewhere nice. Somewhere he would like. A small funeral, a real one, this time.

But he can’t. He can’t.

Steve can’t shake the feeling that one day, he’s going to wake up.

 

* * *

“It’s been two weeks,” Natasha murmurs “please, Steve. It’s time to let go.”

Steve frowns, turns his back to her. Hold’s Tony tighter.

 

* * *

 

At night, he dreams.

He dreams he’s at a lake. There are mountains all around.

“Tony,” he murmurs, and the man turns, laughs.

“Steve,” he says, holding out his hand.

It’s dark, and the moonlight is reflected in the water. Tony presses close, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder.

“I miss you.” Steve says.

Tony grins up at him, presses a quick kiss to his lips. “I miss you, too.”

They sit there for a while.

 

* * *

He has nightmares, too.

“Steve,” Tony’s voice is a croak, a rasp. “Steve, please.”

“I have to, Tony,” Steve says softly “I have to.”

“No,” he begs “no, no, don’t, please I’ll do anything you want.”

Steve sighs and draws the knife over Tony’s ribs. Blood crackles from his mouth a rolls to the ground mixed with spit.

“Steve!” He cries, not understanding why he’s hurting him.

“I have to.” Steve says again. “I’m so sorry.”

 

* * *

The tower is painful.

He sees Tony everywhere. He sees him in the furniture, in the walls, in the decor that he picked out.

Tony’s favourite couch, Tony’s favourite drink, Tony’s favourite food. They’re all still there.

It hurts. It hurts so bad.

One day, he remembers the workshop. He remembers Dummy and the bots.

He goes down to find the whole place has been abandoned since Tony last worked here, some eight months ago. 

Dummy doesn’t seem to work, anymore. No more power.

They’re similar in that respect.

 

* * *

So it goes on like that for a while. A few weeks. Maybe a month.

Until Gus appears at their door.

“I’m so sorry,” he blurts “I’m so, so sorry.”

Steve blinks at him, not really seeing him.

_Hello?_ The voice in his head says _He’s the reason Tony’s dead?_

He’s the reason Tony’s dead. He’s the —

Steve blinks.

It’s almost like seeing a light flash across the room. Seeing colour being sucked back into his surroundings. 

“I’m going to kill you.” He says, calmly. “I’m going to rip you apart, limb from limb. And then I’m going to stick you in the sun until your burn to death.”

Gus swallows.

“Let me explain.” He says.

And then Natasha is there, and she has his head in a chokehold.

“One rip,” she whispers “one little tear and you’re gone.”

Gus holds very, very still.

“I can bring him back.” He gasps. “I can bring Ant back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean you all knew he wasn't going to actually stay dead so


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lifetime long wait. I will finish this eventually. Warnings for suicidal thoughts and general depression.

They strap Gus to the chair in Bruce’s lab. He seems feverish, almost, his eyes glassy. He keeps blinking, his hands twisting on the arm rests.

The seat moves back, laying him vertically, and he looks like he’s going to throw up.

“And you’re sure this will kill you?” Steve asks.

“Oh, absolutely.” Gus manages, tongue running over his lips. “These are my last moments.”

“Good.” Steve says, and turns back to Tony.

“Steve,” Natasha murmurs, and Steve ignores her. He owes Gus nothing. This is simply him giving what is owed, nothing more. As far as Steve’s concerned, Gus’ life for Tony’s is more than a fair substitute.

Steve runs his hands over Tony’s dry hair. It’s brittle, like straw, not lush and shining and thick like it should be.

Soon, though. Soon, it will be.

“Let go, Steve,” Bruce says gently. Steve blinks. People are watching him again, and Gus is shivering. 

“You die,” Steve confirms, eyes locked on Tony’s unmoving form. “And he lives. That’s how it works.”

“To the penny.” Gus chimes.

Steve looks at him for the first time. “You’re very blasé about this.”

Gus fixes him with a stare. “I’m about to die, Captain. Please be nice.”

“If you had stuck your ground neither of you would be dead.”

“I had a moment of clarity. I could not kill my brothers.”

“No,” Steve says turning away “but you were happy to let Tony die.”

“It wasn’t intentional.” Gus hisses. “Don’t you understand? Have you never — I thought he was safe. I thought, you, maybe would die, but you are an acceptable loss. He never was.”

“And that’s why you’re here.” Natasha says distantly.

“Yes,” Gus replies “that’s why I’m here.” He pauses. “You make a fine specimen, if I may add.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s it holding up?”

“My maker is dead.”

“Not for much longer.”

“If this works,” Bruce says dubiously from behind a screen. “If you’re telling the truth.”

“Why would I lie?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” About three people say at the same time. 

“Who knows,” Clint says “who knows why you would lie, you’d just fucking do it. Some other aim. Maybe you’re scoping us out, right now. Ready to alert Diana.”

Gus looks at them. “I’m going to die.” He says quietly.

The others watch him.

“I had a wife,” Gus says, mostly to himself. “I had a wife. And she was taken away.”

No one says anything.

“She had… oh, I don’t know what you’d call it now. She heard voices, in her head. And when, when my country decided that Adolf — ”

“What are you talking about?” Clint interjects.

“They took my wife away. She was insane, obviously. But she would never hurt a fly. The voices never told her to hurt anyone. Mostly they just whispered while she worked. But — ”

Gus turns his head, presses his cheek to the flat of the table. “But when they came for her — Nazis, you see. They have such strict rules on genetics. Did you know that they would send someone to Auschwitz just for having one Jewish grandparent? And they saw, they saw my wife. Someone must have told them, those were the times, no one was safe. Everyone spied. But they saw my wife, and they took my children.”

“So you joined them?”

“No. I thought, maybe, I could help. Save people, I mean. I thought — ”

“You were at Auschwitz?”

“No. I was sent to Treblinka.”

“And did you save anyone?”

“… I didn’t know, at the time. I mean, they were factories of death, I knew that. But I didn’t know — ”

“Didn’t know what?” Steve interjects.

“They were feeding. The vampires were feeding. Off of, off of those people.”

“Did you save anyone?” Steve says again, this time more gentle.

“Children, mostly. Mostly children. You’d smuggle them out before the vampires or the Nazis could get to them.”

“Well then that’s admirable.” Steve says grudgingly.

“No,” Gus says “it’s not. Because, one night, Mother found me. Smuggling out two twins. Do you know what they did to — ” Gus cuts off. “And I knew what she was. And she told me that she’d been watching my work. That she was interested in my theory. And that she could offer me so much more.”

“So?”

“So I returned those children to their cells. They must have died a few days later. And Mother turned me.”

Silence.

“I stayed there, after. I fed.”

Steve doesn’t look at him, and it’s the last thing he hears him say.

 

Gus blinks hazily around the veins in his wrists.

Lana told him, long ago, about a man driven insane by the loss of his child. His first made. And she had explained, how, she had heard, through her studies, that it would be possible to replace the child’s blood with his makers.

That it would save him.

Obviously, it kills the maker. And the blood doesn’t so much as flow through veins as be absorbed by the child’s body. Giving him life. Because that’s how Tony was made, wasn’t he? A tumble in the sheets, and the Gus had pressed his head to his neck, and Tony has sucked, and tasted, and changed.

And now. One last chance.

Lana will miss him. Lana will be… inconsolable. But Lana will age. She will grow. One day, she may take another lover. Or she may end up like Diana. Dead inside, vicious. Killing for killings sake.

She may join the elders. She had said that, once. Talked about how she would love to join them, live among them. See how life once was for their kind.

The doctor — Bruce — looks at him. “Are you ready?” He asks gently.

“I want Lana.” Gus says quietly.

There’s a hand in his hair. “Just sleep,” the woman whispers, the new one “it’ll feel like falling asleep.”

“I deserve this.” Gus mutters.

“No,” the woman says “you don’t.” 

She’s lying, they both know it. But human decency stops her, even her, the assassin, from commenting on it.

“Tell Lana,” Gus sighs “tell her I’m sorry. Tell I her I love her. I know it won’t matter much, but — ”

“Shh,” someone says “it’s okay.”

“Captain,” Gus manages, blinking through lassitude “where, where is he?”

“Waiting.”

“Tell him to take me home.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Natasha was right. Death is like falling asleep.

Somewhere, a light. And then, the singing.

 

“Steve,” Natasha murmurs. “It’s done.”

Steve blinks. “Is he — ”

“We don’t know. We can’t tell. Sit with him.”

Gus is covered with a sheet. He’s not Gus, anymore. Not really. Just another empty slate.

“Tony?” He whispers. “Tony, are you — ”

Quiet. Breath is held, no one talks.

“Tony,” he says again “if, if you can hear me, just, just do something.”

The veins on Tony’s face, those red, creeping lines, have receded. But he remains cold. And still. And dead.

Steve weeps.

 

They hold a funeral some days later.

Steve doesn’t know what to say. The world thinks Tony died long ago. It’s just them, now.

“We should cremate him.” Natasha murmurs. “It’s for the best.”

“No.” Steve says. He wants a grave. He wants to be able to visit, to mourn. He thinks, ultimately, Tony would’ve wanted that. He would’ve wanted to be buried.

Natasha relents, easily, and they hold the service at night for her ease. The plot he has marked out in the graveyard, the Stark plot, was buried with an empty coffin weeks ago. This is more personal. This will be Tony Stark’s final resting place.

Steve, Natasha, Clint, Bruce, Rhodey, Pepper. They stand in a circle, watch as the coffin is carefully lowered to the ground.

It’s a plot of Stark land just on coast. A forest, a lake. In the spring, flowers will grow.

“Someone should,” Steve shakes his head “say a prayer, or something.”

“He wasn’t religious.”

“It’s not about God. Someone, just. Someone say something.”

A brief pause.

Clint clears his throat.

 

So.

Steve has a choice, then. He can sit, and cry, and remain comatose for the rest of his life.

Or he can can do something. He can move, act, be.

First thing, they have to clear his name, which isn’t actually all that difficult once they get the full weight of SHIELD behind them.

That takes a week; a week after they tried to save Tony, and failed.

Another week. Steve works out.

One week more, and Steve is placed back on to active duty, although no one calls him up.

“Captain,” Fury says, shaking his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Fury looks at him. “I bet.”

“Sir, you might be wondering — ”

Fury hold up a hand. “I’m not wondering anything.”

“Tony was — ”

“A good man, and nothing more. Am I right, soldier?”

Steve pauses. “Yes. I think so, Director.”

“And I take it I can trust you to take care of our pest problem?”

“Understood, Sir.”

 

Life goes on, strangely enough.

Or it doesn’t. Not really. Steve finds that days can go by without him moving at all. It’s strange way to live.

Breathing, but not alive.

 

“The others are worried.”

“Worried?”

“They think — they think you’re gonna hurt yourself, Cap.”

Steve smiles. “Clint,” he says, and he tries to say something else. 

But he can’t lie. So he just shrugs, and drinks his coffee.

 

“How long has it been?” Steve asks Jarvis.

“Since?”

“Since Tony died. Since Gus couldn’t save him.”

“Four weeks, Sir.”

“Is that all?”

What can Jarvis say to that? He’s just a computer.

 

“Do you want to go out tonight?”

Steve looks up. “Natasha.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How nice, you remember my name.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

Natasha sits. “Steve,” she says “did you know I’m a vampire now?”

“I know that?”

“Oh. That’s strange. I almost thought you’d forgotten, because you haven’t asked me about it. You haven’t talked to anybody. In fact, I’m starting to think you’re not really here at all.”

“I want to die.”

“Then why haven’t you killed yourself?”

Steve frowns. “There’s… there’s something. I can’t.”

“No,” Natasha sighs. “I don’t doubt it.”

Steve looks up apologetically. “How are you coping?”

“Fine.” Natasha says, easily. “Clint’s tasty and Tony was working on UV-resistant armour before — ” she pauses. “I mean, he had this ingenious design. Like a hologram, you know the ones we use for undercover ops? Except it’s made of this light polyfiber, fits all around the body. Blocks me from the sun. Which is good, because I need it for work, and with these reflexes — ”

Natasha continues talking, and Steve lets it wash over him.

 

So it continues this way for a while. Steve is told it’s a month, but for all he knows it could be more. Or less, even.

No one urges him to date, or anything like that. But there is something in the air. There is an unspoken line: ‘Get better.”

Clint, he thinks, understands now. Because he’s imprinted too. But the difference is, his lover is alive, and Steve is alone.

 

It’s dark out. Steve sits at the kitchen island, sketching.

He likes to do Tony’s face from memory. Keep it fresh. It’s one of the only times he can feel close to happy, now.

He loses himself to it. The scratch of his pencil on the paper, the way Tony’s face takes shape. Beautiful, perfect.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps.

He doesn’t see the figure.

What alerts him, strangely enough, is the smell. Earth, old. Mouldy, even. Like the wet soil you get in the fall, when the leaves have crushed into the earth.

So he looks up.

Blinks.

“You,” Tony says, pointing a finger. “You buried me alive, you fucking asshole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M DETERMINED TO FINISH THIS STUPID FUCKING STORY IF IT'S LITERALLY THE LAST STUPID FUCKING THING I EVER FUCKING DO


	27. Chapter 27

Steve stares at Tony for a long, long time.

He hasn't slept in awhile. He's tired. It's not the first time his mind has played tricks on him.

"Hey!" Tony barks, striding closer "Are you fucking listening to me? Are you hearing this? _You buried me alive. You locked me in a box and stuck me ten feet under, what is wrong with you?"_

Steve blinks at him, drowsily. He sighs. "Not tonight." He mutters, turning.

"Hello?" Tony says, and Steve feels something grabbing his elbow. "Steve?" The voice says, more soft. "Steve, it's me. It's Tony. I'm home. You... you do want me home, right? Oh God. Burying me wasn't a last ditch attempt to get rid of me, was it? Was it?"

The not-Tony is covered in dirt. Mud. He's bloody. His own blood? Maybe. Hard to tell. The spirals Diana carved into his face --

Are still there. Grotesquely beautiful. She didn't get far; they curl round an eye, over a cheekbone. It could be worse, and is coverable with makeup.

Not that it matters, because this isn't really Tony. Steve closes his eyes, frowns, when whatever it is he's seeing takes his face in it's hands. Shakes, slightly.

" ... teve." The voice says "Steve."

"Tony." Steve mumbles, because under it all, the dirt and muck, he almost has Tony's smell.

"Yeah," Tony breathes "yeah it's me. Feel me, look." He takes Steve's hand, presses it to his own face. "Feel me. I'm Tony. I'm not dead, I was never dead. Or I was. I don't know what you did, but it worked. I'm here. Steve? Steve. Look at me. Look at me. _Look at me."_

Steve stares. "Tony," he says again, slowly. "Tony. Tony. You're -- oh my God, _Tony!"_

He laughs when Steve folds him into his arms, when he inhales the filth of him without even caring, when he pulls back and their lips crash together until they're on the floor and Steve's holding on and never letting go. "I thought you were dead," he sobs "I thought -- I thought, I thought you were gone. Oh my God. Oh my God."

Steve may be the happiest man alive. He can't --

Tony doesn't say anything, he just clings onto Steve, gasping, head pressed into his shoulder. He nods, maybe, and Steve holds him, tight, rocking back and forth.

"I thought," Tony swallows "Jesus I don't know what I thought. I can't remember what happened, Steve. I don't -- is she dead? Is Diana dead? Did everyone get out okay?"

Steve draws back. Cups Tony's face. "The team are okay." He whispers. "Diana... is still alive."

"Oh."

"But we'll get her." Steve swears. "Her forces are decimated, there's no one in control. We can get here. It'll be easy. I love you."

Tony stares. "I love you." He replies. "Yeah, yeah, God, I love you. I love you so fucking much."

Tony buries his head in Steve's chest and shudders, and Steve finds that he can't let go. "Gus is dead." He murmurs, lips pressed against Tony's hair. "I'm sorry. He... he did good, in the end. He gave his life for you."

Tony sucks in a breath, shaking. "Okay."

"And that was repentance. He redeemed himself."

"You shouldn't have let him."

"Think of it as me being selfish," Steve says, and he smiles, tilting up Tony's chin "I didn't want you gone."

Tony blinks at him, then nods. "Yeah," he says softly "I understand that."

Steve's head tilts, curiously, because there's something wrong with Tony. He takes in the scars on his face, his eyes, his nose. He's not the same. He's changed.

"What -- "

"I don't know." Tony blurts. "I don't -- I think dying... I think it changed me. Steve, I haven't been thirsty the whole time I've been here. I woke up in that coffin, and I got out. I'm still strong, I think. Maybe not as fast. But right now, I could, like, murder a fucking cheeseburger, or something."

Steve runs his hands over Tony's face, and then presses another kiss to warm, soft lips. Actually no; not soft. Cracked, and brittle, like they haven't drunk in a while. He smoothes his hand over the back of Tony's head, stares at his face. He's alive. He's alive. He's alive.

"Cheeseburger." Steve blurts, and then he laughs. "Oh my God. Oh my God, you're -- "

"I'm sorry," Tony says "for all of it? It wasn't actually my fault. I guess, I trusted Gus. That was stupid. But I didn't have a choice, I -- I can't control how I felt about my maker. And I didn't -- "

"I'm sorry." Steve says "I'm sorry for burying you alive. And I'm really, really sorry that we nearly cremated you."

Tony laughs, presses his head to Steve's brow. "But we're here." He whispers. "We're back. And I'm -- " Tony makes a face. "Not normal."

"You stink." Steve says, standing, dragging Tony up with him. "How did you get home?"

Tony blinks. "Ran. Uh, stole a car. I've been moving since this morning, maybe? You buried me in the middle of nowhere, Steve."

"I -- when did you wake up?"

"A few days."

"Didn't you run out of air?"

Tony pauses. "I..." he frowns "I don't think I need to breathe."

"You're doing it right now!"

"Habit, maybe? I -- " Tony holds his breath "yeah. See? No desperation."

Steve groans. "Christ, there's no easy way with you."

"Yeah but I'm good for sunlight now, Steve! And I can _eat_ again, ohmygod."

"Ohmygod," Steve agrees, laughing, and he scoops Tony close and presses a line of kisses down his face, his neck, peppers his shoulders. Tony pushes him away, hands gripping his shirt.

"No," he says "not yet. Bath, then cheeseburger, then -- I need to see Natasha. Christ, I'm really sorry about that. I'd offer try a take-back, but that might mean me dying again and I'm just not -- "

There's a crash, glass hitting stone floor. Clint stares. "Holy shit."

Tony turns, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace "It's me." He says slowly "It is actually me. I'm alive."

"No." Clint says slowly "No. Because -- because we buried you. And -- " he looks at Steve. "And this isn't..."

"Tony?" Natasha blurts, pushing past where Clint stands in the door.

Tony holds out his hands, this time in a welcoming gesture. "Natasha!" He says "Looking, well, looking good."

"You look like shit." She says bluntly. "You look like -- " she scents the air "you don't smell right." She rests her hand on Clint's chest as if to hold him back, narrows her eyes "Who are you?"

"Christ," Tony mutters, looking back at Steve. "I am Tony. My name's Tony Stark and, honestly, the last thing I remember is death. I woke up about, I don't know, a day ago because maybe vampires can't die -- "

"It must have worked." Clint hisses "Natasha it worked."

But Natasha just continues to stare. "It doesn't... I feel like I would know." She says "He's my _maker,_ I'm not -- "

"It's weird," Tony admits "I know that. Nat I'm hungry, as in, I need food. Not... the other thing. I don't know what's happened, okay? But I'm really, really hungry. I stink. And I really want a bath, and to spend some time with Steve, so I'm not going to make any sudden movements, and maybe you can Clint can come here and check I'm 100% because if not I'm going to go and God help me if -- "

Natasha's hand is fisted in Tony's hair before Steve can even blink. Not hard, not twisting. Just holding. And Tony's eyes widen comically and he stands very, very still.

Until Natasha slumps. "Clint," she croaks "Clint it's him. This is the real deal."

"Fuck." Clint blurts "Oh my -- "

Natasha hugs him, and cuffs him on the back of the head for good measure. "You're alive." She says, voice hoarse. "Oh, my God, this is -- " she laughs, stepping back, and lets Clint wrap his arms around Tony's shoulders in what's probably the most enthusiastic exchange he's ever seen them undertake.

"I fucking hate you, man," Clint says, pulling back "you, you really fucked us over there."

"You're right," Tony says solemnly "I am, I am just so sorry that I was brutally murdered, I'll try not to let it happen again."

"Fuck. You." Clint says, poking his chest. "Look, I can do this now. You can't even kill me anymore."

"Oh, I can still kill you." Tony says mildly "Where's Bruce?"

"Hiding." Clint says "Well, no, he's down in Peru searching for a flower which is supposed to bring people back to life which almost certainly doesn't exist but what you going to do about it?"

"Right," Tony says, distracted "yeah, right." He turns to Steve "Shall we go? I mean let's go. I really need wash or I think I'm going to just jump right back into that coffin."

"Don't joke." Steve warns.

Tony smiles softly. His brow furrows. "I'm really tired." He admits. "I haven't been tired in months. I -- I want to sleep."

Tony wants a bath, and he wants to sleep, and he wants to eat. And he can step out in the sun and he and Steve can walk hand in hand, Steve can take him for meals without being the meal and he can hold him at night and watch him sleep and let him dream.

He runs his fingers through the brittle hair on Tony's scalp, crusted with mud. Is he crazy, or is there the first sighs of white between the dark flawless brown?

Steve curls his arm over Tony's shoulders, tucks him under his own weight. "C'mon," he says "I'm sure someone could bring up some eggs or whatever."

"I want a burger."

"I don't know if we have burgers."

"I'll go get a burger." Clint sighs "It's New York, there has to be a burger place open at 2 am, right?"

Tony smiles tiredly, leaning into Steve's side.

 

The scars on Tony's body reach from his back down to his hip and just over the curve of his ass. He hisses as he gently lowers himself into the steaming water, leaning carefully back, hands clutching the porcelain walls of the tub. He groans, head tipping back, water swirling over his chest and staining a dark brown with the filth. "I needed that." He croaks, smiling with his eyes closed.

Steve doesn't say anything, just strokes Tony's hand. He's alive. He's alive. Tony's alive, Tony's alive, oh wow, oh God, he lived, they all lived, and Steve --

"What happened to you?" Tony asks quietly "She hurt you too. How are you still here."

Steve shrugs, shakes his head. "I just. I heal."

Tony opens his eyes slightly, smiles. "Yeah you do." He sighs, arching slightly in the water and wincing when his back cracks. "What do you think about my tats?"

"I think it's lucky she didn't get any further then she did."

Tony pouts. "You don't think I'm pretty?"

"You're very pretty," Steve tries "you're very -- " his voice cracks, and he has to look away.

"Steve?" Tony says, softly "Steve, sweetie? What's wrong? Is it -- is it me?"

"Yes it's you." Steve breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You were -- you were _dead_ Tony. Do you have, have any idea -- "

"Hey hey hey," Tony soothes, sitting up in the water and taking Steve hands "hey that's not fair."

"Not -- I'm not blaming you. But could you imagine? Losing your imprint, losing your -- "

"I know." Tony says "I thought you were dead, remember? Diana told me you were dead. And that Gus was dead. And then I heard your voice. I know, Steve, I know what it's like to -- to lose someone like that. And I can't imagine... but I'm here. Now. I'm here. C'mon, touch me." He takes Steve's hand and presses it to his face. "Feel. It's me, I'm real. And -- " Tony's nose wrinkles "and I'm stinking. So maybe -- "

Steve snorts a laugh which is half a sob. "I hate you," he grins "I hate you so fucking much, why -- "

Tony smiles his kindly smile, head tilted slightly. He drags a wet hand through Steve's hair, frowns, and pushes it back so it sticks up on his head. He smoothes his fingers over the skin of Steve's brow. "Is it me or are you getting worry lines?"

"I do worry a lot."

"Stop. I command it." Tony flicks water in Steve's face as if anointing him with holy oil.

"Well, in that case, I just _have_ to obey."

Tony grins. "C'mon," he says "do my back. Let's speed this up, I want to cuddle."

After, they're lying on the bed. Tony yawns, hand curling through Steve's hair, now dry. He looks all warm, and fresh, hair fluffy on his head and skin rosy with the force of how hard he'd scrubbed. His eyes close, but he forces them open again. Another yawn.

"Sleep." Steve soothes. He brushes his thumb down Tony's cheek.

"I haven't slept in a long time." Tony says "I'm scared to dream."

"Of nightmares?"

"No." Tony says simply "Just whatever we see in our heads."

"You didn't dream at all?" Steve asks "In the coffin?"

"Steve... I was dead."

Steve scoffs. "You couldn't actually have been dead."

Tony sits up "Yes, I was. I, I remember lying, with you. And I stared at the sky. And then I died."

"And? What came after that?"

Tony looks at Steve for a long, long time. "I don't know." He says, carefully. "Death is death."

"Death is death." Steve repeats. "It was... there was nothing?"

"There wasn't a pearly gate, if that's what you're asking. Or fires and pitchforks."

"You wouldn't go to hell."

"Death... it wasn't..." Tony shudders, slightly.

"You weren't aware." Steve says "You just -- it's like falling asleep, right? You just ceased to be."

"I don't know. Can we not talk about this? C'mon, I don't want to ruin the surprise."

"Ruin the surprise?"

"Sure. We all die eventually."

"You more than most."

"This is true." Tony sighs. He lies down and wraps Steve's arms around his middle. "Spoon me like there's no tomorrow."

Steve snorts against the back of Tony's neck, huffs a breath. "You're ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous." Tony mumbles in reply, and then he sleeps.

 

Waking up is so strange.

Stranger, even, then finding consciousness after a month of death. Because that was a gasp, a shock to the system, he'd even hit his head on the lid of the coffin. This is slow, gentle. Pillowed on his lover's chest.

He smiles, and yawns. Stretches slightly. He can't have slept long, but he feels better for it. Rolling, he stares up at the roof, _his_ roof, with the spotlights Tony used to count before he slept.

It's a long time before he notices anything is wrong, because although he's still fast, still with ears the can hear police cars a hundred floors below and a nose that can smell the hotdog vendor that waits outside the lobby, vampires aren't that great at searching out other vampires. Especially when they have experience with hiding. 

So it's not until he hears someone clear their throat that he freezes. Lifts his head.

Diana smiles, softly. She's sitting on a chair at the end of the bed. She's got a gun, in her hand, and her fingers are gently stroking the casement. "Hello Anthony." She sighs.Tilts her head slightly; examines him, in that way she has, that brutal, clinical, utterly disturbing way.

She's wearing a shirt that's too big and shorts. Worn boots on her feet. She just looks at Tony for a long, long time, and keeps stroking the gun.

Slowly, Tony rests his hand on Steve's shoulder. Shakes him. "Wake up." He murmurs.

"Your team don't know I'm here." Diana says sweetly, sitting up straight. "But that's just how I want it, okay? Just you and me."

"You and me." Tony murmurs. "Why now. Why not -- you've had months to kill him."

Steve stirs, blinking awake. He smiles. "Hey Tony."

Tony gestures with his chin and Steve frowns, sitting up. "Oh, Christ." He mutters, resting his head in his hand.

"Yeah." Tony croaks. "That. Are you going to kill us, Diana?"

"I heard Gus brought you back." She says, loading the gun. "That's what I heard. Of course, rumours don't quite fly like they used to since you blew up my home, but." She shrugs "What are you going to do about it?"

Tony stays quiet. She snorts, shakes her head. "God, I... _hate_ you. You are just -- Christ. All of you. I should every single fucking one of you, especially that red bitch. _Fuck,"_ she spits " _fuck_ I hate her most of all. And she comes from such fine stock; Gus from Mother, you from Gus, her from you. It's a shame. It's a fucking shame, because -- " she seems to linger on her words "because we must restart. We have to... restart now, Tony."

"Go to hell."

Diana scrapes her nails down the burnt side of her face. "You did this to me." She says "You. I don't forget it. Him to," she says dismissively, waving her gun in Steve's direction "but you, mostly. It was -- well, if we want to point fingers we'll put this all on Gus because he was the infatuated idiot who changed you in the first place. But he's dead now, too. Gus is dead, the Council's gone. Everything's winding up pretty neat for you, even if you are a mongrel."

Tony raises his eyebrows and ignores that Diana will be able to hear his pulse fluttering in his neck. "A mongrel?"

"Not quite all there. You died, Gus brought you back; you're not of true blood, anymore. This didn't seem to matter, though," Diana smirks "when the fucking provisionary state decreed that we needed a new ruler. And, let me just repeat this in case you didn't quite get it, Gus came from Mother and you came from Gus and unfortunately -- " Diana stands, holds the gun in both hands "that makes you number one. And quite frankly I have about thirteen warrants out for my arrest and I probably won't last until next week but if anything makes me angry it's that _you,_ " she spits "you who have never cared or even tried to better our race gain the prize while I must cede on the basis that your _maker_ \-- washed up as he was -- used to be Mother's pet."

Tony slowly raises his hands. "I don't want it," he says carefully "I don't need it. Diana, we're done. I don't -- I don't want to kill you."

"Yes you do." Dina sneers "I can smell it on you. I carved up your back like a canvas andbeat you until you were bloody, you want me dead. And you don't need to lie."

"Fine." Tony admits "Fine I want you dead. But I'm not going to -- put down the gun."

Diana just tilts her head, hands tightening around the base. She turns, slightly, aiming at Steve's head. "What about him." She says quietly. "I could kill him."

"Don't." Tony manages, swallowing.

Steve says resolutely silent. He takes Tony's hand in his own.

Diana pauses. "I thought she loved me." 

Tony blink. "What?"

"Romanoff. I was -- deluded."

Tony stares. "You thought... Natasha was in love with you."

"Oh, Christ," Diana rests her head in her hand "yes. Yes, that's what I thought. I'm pathetic, maybe. That, and I'm used to people... fawning. She was the only one that I ever felt was worthy of having that attention reciprocated."

"Why -- "

"Why not?" Diana snaps "It never meant anything anyway. I will not let you tarnish my race with your stupidity. I am hundreds of years old and you are _nothing._ You have -- you are -- "

"What do you want, Diana." Tony asks, quietly.

"I want to kill you."

"Then kill me."

"I want it to _hurt."_

Tony sighs. "I think you could shoot me anywhere now. I'm practically human. Go on. Take a shot." He rubs this back of his hand over his brow. "This is getting old, Diana. I just -- you're poisonous, I get it. You don't even want revenge, you just can't bear the thought of someone else taking your place. It's petty. Grow up."

"Listen to me." Diana says, quietly, for the first time. "I am older than you know. I have watched, for years, as Mother and her cronies on the council drove us into the ground. As they got fat on blood and money and _stopped._ Stopped making change, stopped moving forward. So I bided my time and I waited. You, Gus, you're nothing. You're children. One obstacle in my way. Do you mourn someone who died fifty years ago? No. That's what death is to me, it's inconsequential. I thought you, of all people, would understand." She pauses. "That's why I recommended you name to the council, for the change. I thought you would recognise progress. I thought you would help."

"And the council disagreed."

"Of course the disagreed." Diana scoffs "They didn't want change, not like me. So they ruled against it. And then Gus, stupid, stupid fucking Gus, changed you himself. Got you into his camp, and then no wonder you despised me."

"Diana. When I first met you, you had a girl on a slab and were torturing her for food."

"I have quirks!"

"You're sick."

"And you're no one to judge."

"I really am."

"A warmonger turned futurist," Diana spits "I thought you'd be perfect."

"And I wasn't," Tony says slowly "I just wasn't. And it didn't work in your favour, did it? So why don't you... put down the gun," Tony tries "and go. Leave, and escape while you can."

"Put down the gun?" Diana barks, hysterical "You want me to put down the gun?"

The doors slams open, then. Natasha stalls and Clint aims his bow, but if Diana shoots now, that won't matter because no one can outrun a bullet over this short a distance.

Natasha stares and Diana blinks and then she winds her hand behind her head, places the barrel of the gun at the base of her skull, and pulls the trigger.

She doesn't fall immediately; she hangs, slightly, jaw loose on her mouth and half ripped free, blood dripping down her porcelain neck.

And then she falls to the ground with a heavy thunk, leaving a rather ugly stain in the middle of their floor.

 

They wrap the body in white cloth and incinerate it. Nothing more to be done. Diana's final remains are the bottom of Tony Stark's bin.

It feels okay, Tony thinks. He feels like he's lost his taste for revenge along with his bloodlust. Maybe the two went hand in hand. He and Steve and happy, so there's nothing to avenge. Maybe this is just how it's meant to be.

The provisionary council send a representative three days later. "In light of recent... events." The man -- who looks like a pen-pusher in a mid-range accountancy firm -- "We name you, Anthony Stark, first of his name, to the position of -- "

"Stop." Tony grits, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh my God just -- let me save you some time. No. I've got a lot going on right now, okay? I've been away for like, ten years, and -- look, it's just not something I can do justice, okay?"

The pen-pushing vampire stares. "Okay." He says slowly. "In which case -- "

"My descendent, right." Tony sighs "To be quite frank, as appealing as that sounds, I'm not sure she's entirely 100% up for the gig either."

The pen-pusher looks affronted. "This is tradition, Mr Stark," he says "I urge you to reconsider. If not you, we will have to select a new leader from a pool of -- "

"Can I let you into a secret?" Tony says "It's been around for a while but you might have missed it, this thing called democracy? Now I don't know if you're entirely familiar with the concept but -- "

"That's all well and good but we don't get to instigate major change without a leader, Mr Stark. Even you should know that."

Tony sighs. "Can I abdicate?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is it like, a for life kind of thing? Or can I abdicate?"

"You can -- yes, you can step down, but only -- "

"If I have a named successor?"

"Of course."

"Right. In which case I humbly accept." Tony thumbs out his phone and gets up the number Jarvis had stored all those months ago. "And shit, wow. I just abdicated. May we reign long and blah blah blah whatever, here, she's my successor."

"Excuse me?"

"Would you just get the number down?" Tony asks, impatiently. "That's my successor, Lana. Used to be the imprint of Gus, isn't exactly pure blood but I think you guys need a few revolutions to get you going."

"'You guys'" The pen-pusher says disparagingly "Mr Stark, the last time I checked -- "

"We had _nothing_ to do with you." Tony says, pointedly. "Me and my Natasha. Nothing, do you understand?"

The pen-pusher stares. "If, if that's your choice -- "

"And it is."

"Life without your own kind can be isolating, Mr Stark."

"I'm not my own kind anymore." Tony says "I age. I eat. I sleep."

"She is." The pen-pusher says "Your daughter. Natasha."

"She's not my daughter." Tony sighs "It's creepy that you refer to it like that, we nearly banged once. And besides, she'll figure something out. No doubt Clint will decide he'll want to join her, too."

"You're talking about starting a new... coven here, Mr Stark."

"No." Tony says "I'm talking about you leaving us alone. Because we never asked for this. I never asked for this. And we're done."

 

That evening, while Steve cooks and his team sit, gathered around the table, Tony steps outside.

Evening air feels safe for him now; he's not sure he'll ever love the sun quite like he used to. But he can close his eyes here; here the people murmur from below, smell the food from the vendors, hot spices and mustard and meat. The city feels alive, maybe. Like it's thrumming underneath him. Alive, and breathing, just like Tony.

A deep breath, a slight exhale.

It was done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short epilogue up next


	28. Epilogue

It's difficult, smuggling a body out of the country, especially one as solid as Gus'. Tony doesn't know how it happens, but vampire bodies don't appear to decompose the same as humans. When Steve shows him where they were keeping it, Gus hasn't changed a bit. Hasn't aged a day. Is petrified, like marble, body turned to stone.

They cremate him. Gather his ashes. The village is removed, quaint. High in the mountains and as beautiful a place as you could find. If anyone notices two Avengers walking around, they don't mention it.

So Steve and Tony pick a grassy plain, just overlooking the small houses below. That night, they stand there, urn in hand.

"Do you want to say a few words?" Steve asks, quietly.

Tony clears his throat. "Gus." He says "You were an ass. But you tried your best. And... maybe there was some good inside you, somewhere." He thinks "And I'm sorry Lana couldn't be here. You should know that at least someone loved you, at the end."

"Amen." Steve says.

Tony slowly turns to frown at him, and Steve shrugs. "Had to say something."

Tony sighs. He gathers some ashes in his hand and lets them drop off the cliff and down below. A few swirl away into the late night breeze.

Instead of returning to their cabin they stay out that night, on the lake. Tony and Steve, side by side, staring up at the stars.

"Can I ask you something?" Tony says, sighing.

"Anything."

"Do you feel different?"

Steve blinks. "What?"

"The bond. Does it feel different to you?"

Steve looks unsure. "I... maybe."

Tony nods. "I think it's broken."

"Don't say that."

"No no, it's not -- that's not a bad thing. I mean, we're both here, aren't we?"

"We are."

Tony shrugs. "It's nice to know you're here for me. Not for... I don't know. Not for whatever reason vampires imprint."

Steve nods, slowly. "Maybe." He says "Yeah. I mean -- you're right."

Tony rests his head softly onto Steve's shoulder, stares up at the moon. It's the same one Diana would have stared at, all those hundreds of years ago. The same one Gus would have seen on the nights he stood here as a child. The elders, even, when they first lifted their heads to the sky, they all saw the same thing. Old and omnipresent, the same night throughout all the age. The light that would have guided all of them, once.

A slight breeze lifts the hair on Tony's head, the back of his neck prickles; in that moment he feels something pass through him, over him. He thinks about death. He remembers the life after closing. And he smiles, because although some things fade away, no one is ever truly gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED IT
> 
> Sorry for making you wait a year, that was sucky.
> 
> I know it's rushed, I just figured it's better to upload something shorter than never upload anything? If you enjoyed it, thank you! If you're still reading this, thank you! If you have any comments on the ending, or if you enjoyed the story, please leave some below!!
> 
> And thank you!! Again!! For!! Waiting!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


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